


Not So Final

by justonemore11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-02-13 01:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12972501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonemore11/pseuds/justonemore11
Summary: This follow on to The Final Problem eventually becomes a casefic, which Greg and Mycroft navigate along with their new relationship.  Special cameos by Greg's mother, King George's palace, Paddington Bear, and Tupperware.  A rough version of the first two chapters were originally posted on fanfiction.net





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade picked his way through the rubble of 221B Baker St. for what must have been the fifth time. He rubbed his hand over his face distractedly. He had been there for four hours, and still he had more questions than answers. The investigation was actually moving really rapidly, which made the situation all the more maddening. He really wasn’t even supposed to be there. Arson investigation was a specialized field, and Lestrade was grateful that the team had not ordered him offsite, which they could easily have done by rights. Instead, he had been onsite when they discovered the grenade bits, the drone bits, and, finally, the most important bit of news: no bodies. At least they all had a chance of being alive. 

Yet, there was no sign of Sherlock or John or Mrs. Hudson. First responders had been there within minutes, and none of the first few witnesses they had found had seen anyone leaving the scene. His calls and texts to Mycroft had gone unanswered, not unusual in and of itself, except that he had always gotten a response from Mycroft when the message was “Sherlock is missing.” He had contacted some of Sherlock’s network of informants, since they had some overlap with his own. Sherlock’s lot were more articulate than his, but also more likely to be high as kites. They were also more tight-lipped, no doubt the consequence of Lestrade’s inferior government-allotted budget. Two had alluded to “a job in Richmond”, which sounded like Mycroft’s place. 

The light had gone. Lestrade needed to keep moving, or he would go mad. His constables were canvassing. There was nothing left for him to do here. He crunched through the bits of charred wood and singed book bindings. God, the Holmes boys (and he did indeed think of them as boys. He was willing to admit that this was probably his middle class prejudice against classifying people without spouses, kids, mortgages, or proper jobs as adults). The thing was, that their poshness had always seemed proof against this kind of destruction. Even the criminals they dealt with were posh, with series of clues and elaborate traps. The drone with a grenade fit the pattern, but actually allowing it to go off didn’t. This was more like the unbridled anger that he’d seen in the garden variety London criminals that made up half his daily menu: domestic disputes turned violent and drug deals gone bad that seemed to continue on at a steady pace, no matter how many dealers he locked up.  
Lestrade was worried. Alright, he was always worried, but this was different. Sherlock, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft – four people just didn’t disappear in a cloud of smoke. He wasn’t just baffled – baffled he could handle; baffled yielded to wading through financials and phone records. He was willing to admit that he dreaded the thought of their absence from his life, not just because of the cases, but because he thought of them as friends. He got on well with all of them, but if he thought about it, he preferred Mycroft’s calm organization to Sherlock’s mercurial chaos and John’s moodiness. Maybe that was just the age difference. John and Sherlock were like overindulged youth, with all of this theatrical coat swishing and blogging. Mycroft at least seemed to understand that in order to really accomplish something, a certain amount of plodding had to be interspersed with the theatrics. There was also the added bonus that it was dead cool to have a mate with a sword collection.

By the time he reached the curb at the end of Baker Street, he had decided to head to Mycroft’s place. He would never get anywhere by going to the Ministry, where Mycroft’s assistant usually seemed to perceive him as worthy of the same attention she gave the man who came to read the gas meter. A bit more on a good day. Dinner would be a couple of protein bars from the newsagent’s, not for the first time. With the usual horrific London traffic, it was after eight when he arrived. He’d been here a couple of times for tea, which, with Mycroft, always turned out to be tea and manipulation. Lestrade considered it a point of pride that he hadn’t been invited recently. They seemed to have arrived at an understanding. 

Lestrade suspected that Mycroft had deliberately chosen this quiet street in a neighborhood that was more unobjectionable than trendy; lower profile for a supposed civil servant. The houses were also detached and spaced apart from the neighbors; much better for security than the crescents of West Ken or Chelsea. The house was dark and quiet. Lestrade tiptoed over the simple laser sensor grid to the front door. He had expected better from Mycroft’s team than the factory settings! The locks and security keypad were brand new, with glue from the manufacturer’s stickers still visible. What had made Mycroft feel the need to change everything out? Was it something to do with “the Richmond job”. He was not surprised that there was no answer when he rang the bell, but his sense of unease grew. He parked his car down the street to watch for a bit, only to realize he had no idea what he was watching for. 

It was gone ten when he arrived at his place in Stockwell. After the divorce, he had decided that he would choose convenience over space, so he got himself a tiny flat in a close-in neighborhood. There were a couple of decent locals and on nice days, he could cycle to work, so he was quite happy there, although he hoped his pay packets would be able to keep up with the rent long term. The neighborhood hadn’t done much for his love life; he occasionally met a bloke or two watching football, and the odd cute woman doing his weekly shop. He’d begun to see that he really needed to look for good conversation and compatibility first. His divorce had taught him that relying on attraction alone wasn’t going to get him something that might last.

He checked in with Donovan at the crime scene. Nothing else had turned up, and the arson team was packing up. Lestrade told her to get some sleep.  
Lestrade changed and collapsed into bed, but only was able to sleep for a couple of hours. At 2:00 am, he checked his phone for messages. Nothing from Sherlock or John. Why hadn’t Mycroft texted at least? Mycroft prided himself on i’s dotted and t’s crossed. Lestrade thought, slightly resentfully, that he himself should be at least a t. Time ticked by at a slow crawl. He slept fitfully, was roused by his alarm, and was on his second cup of coffee by the time he arrived at his desk.

In hindsight, Lestrade would think of that day as a slow simmer that rapidly rose to a full boil. No one had heard anything. Someone had a lead on Mrs. Hudson’s sister, but it turned out she’d heard nothing. Where was Rosie? Lestrade cursed himself for having tuned out all of John’s conversations about his family.  
At 14:00, there was a knock on his door. Molly Hooper stood there. She usually left after lunch on Fridays, so he was surprised to see her. She looked upset. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

“Is Sherlock, um, on a case? I just got the oddest phone call from him?”

“He, John, and Mrs. Hudson are all missing! When did he call?”

“About an hour ago. He did sound…really weird.”

“What did he say?” 

“He – ah- he asked me to recite something.”

“I’ll need your phone, Molly”. He grabbed it and ran it to the IT lads. The call had come from Wales, but they couldn’t pinpoint the exact place or tower.  
“Deliberately masked,” one had said pointedly. That smacked of some Mycroftian national security issue.

After that, the reports went from the surreal to the macabre. 

First, the usually routine coastal patrol report said that there were floating bodies and an abandoned ship off the coast in Wales. Lestrade broke open a new roll of Tums. 

Then, a report coming out of a place called Sherrinford. It was a level 3 report from MI5, routinely available as part of a newsfeed for New Scotland Yard employees of sufficient rank. Lestrade shut his office door to read the secure email. Apparently, Sherrinford was a maximum security prison for the worst of the worst. This was news to Lestrade, but he had always supposed such a place existed. He hadn’t been curious about where it was, as long as it wasn’t within a mile of his mum’s place. 

Another email pinged. It was a level 5 from Lady Alicia Smallwood, and he had been Bcc’ed. A Level 5? He was surprised his computer hadn’t exploded on the spot. One of the Sherrinford prisoners, a Eurus Holmes, had taken over the prison. So that was it: a Holmes gone bad. Lestrade shuddered. Was it a cousin? An uncle? Was Eurus a male or female name? He continued reading. When he arrived at the phrase “tortured her brothers and a third man,” Lestrade, with shaking hands, grabbed his coat, with the intention of dropping everything and heading to Wales. The desk phone rang. It was his DSI, telling him to drop everything and head to Wales. 

After a suitable rant about “these bloody Holmeses, who seem to think that no other crime occurs in the entire bloody United Kingdom”, his DSI revealed to him that the Sherrinford prison staff was all hopelessly compromised. New Scotland Yard was not only taking over the prison completely, but would have to transport some of the staff for questioning and possible charges. A complete mess in other words. His DSI also mentioned, in an annoyed tone, that Mycroft has asked for him personally to orchestrate the change out. Lestrade let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. If Mycroft was well enough to peremptorily commandeer half of NSY’s reserves, perhaps the reports of “torture” had been exaggerated. If this had been any other day, Lestrade would have been flattered that Mycroft had asked for him.  
It was not lost on him that no mention had been made of Sherlock and John. 

Lestrade went downstairs to the briefing room and grabbed the first three dozen non-wankers he could find. It was one of those instances where the command voice came in handy, and he mentally thanked his late father for passing on the genes.

“You lot, into the vans. We’re essentially performing a hostile takeover, so we won’t be welcomed with tea and digestives. Prepare accordingly.” He gave the drivers the GPS for dock for the boat to Sherrinford. He jumped in his car, with the full intention of blaring his siren for the next 300 kilometers. He’d been in the car about 2 hours when his phone rang. Mycroft. Lestrade pulled over. 

“Gregory.”

Gregory? My God, this was way worse than he had thought.

“Gregory, whereabouts are you?”

“On the M4.”

“You’re on your way here…” Mycroft sounded distracted and distant.

“NSY is restaffing the prison, at your request,” said Lestrade gently.

“Yes, of course. Gregory, you will need to shift gears, so to speak. The local police have informed us that my sister has been apprehended, and Sherlock and John are safe. They are all currently at Musgrave, our former home. My sister will need to be reincarcerated at Sherrinford. Gregory, it is imperative that no one must be left alone with her or speak to her for any length of time. She…she convinces people to do things.” Mycroft’s voice was uncharacteristically tentative.

“Like releasing her from a supermax prison?”

“Yes, yes. She had the best mind of the three of us, but… the least conscience. She…she killed a child and tried to kill the rest of us by burning the house down. She has been incarcerated ever since. Oh, we used her mind, yes. Little did I know that she was using us too, and ever so much more effectively. Bloody fool I!” Here, he stopped.

“Mycroft,” said Lestrade, swallowing, “the reports said torture. Are you…” Mycroft sighed.

“Largely unharmed physically,” he laughed bitterly. “The torture was mostly psychological.“

Lestrade listened as Mycroft spelled out the deaths, the choices, and the few details he had about her collapse. At the end, all Lestrade could say was “Fuck.”

“Indeed.” 

Lestrade roused himself from his horror-induced fugue. He had dealt with families who had been through horrible ordeals before, but this was more difficult somehow. It felt personal. He shook it off. All he had to offer was his own ability to do his job, and he had to at least give them that. 

“Mycroft, I’ll need directions to your family home.”

“Of course, of course… I…take the turning at Saltmarsh Rd. Then, ah, Fawn’s Way. You can’t miss the large burned out ruin.”

“Mycroft…take care of yourself.” 

“I…perhaps the time has passed for that…thank you.” Mycroft rang off abruptly. 

Lestrade diverted a van to Musgrave, and then sent the other two vans to Sherrinford, with strict instructions to take all guards into custody, except the IT staff needed to get the system up and running. 

He blared the siren all the way to Musgrave, ordering a helicopter as he drove pell mell. The locals were already there, and his van of officers soon followed. Lestrade passed out earplugs to his staff and gave them instructions: rotate the team directly exposed to Eurus Holmes every ten minutes, and if she started speaking, hand her off after two sentences. 

Lestrade then caught sight of Sherlock and John, and walked over. John was obviously drenched, but oddly calm. Sherlock turned from him to Lestrade.

“I don’t think she’ll speak again. At least not tonight.”

“I just spoke to your brother.”

“Is he alright?”

“He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She locked him in her cell.” He would have mentioned the part about Mycroft’s talking the now aimless guards into releasing him, getting him his phone back, and arranging for half the nation’s police to saunter in, but he assumed Sherlock had deduced that by now. Sherlock himself had probably called the locals. 

“Mycroft…make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks,” said Sherlock, with unusual collectedness. The man had been through hell, but Lestrade found him to be more resolute and less blustery. As if he finally understood how things were.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it,” he said. Mycroft certainly had not given Lestrade confidence that he was his usual self. He had sounded almost broken. Greg found that he wanted to step in here, to be the steady arm. Maybe he had something else to offer besides the ability to do his job.

“Thanks, Greg.”

Greg? There might not be enough therapists in the realm to fix this.

Lestrade told a PC to drive his car to the dock and then joined the group in the helicopter, expecting the worst. The trip was completely uneventful. Even the air had calmed. He was surprised by how little time it took to get Eurus into her cell. She had said nothing. Staring into space and moving almost mechanically, she sat on a chair and remained otherwise motionless. Such an odd contrast with her talkative brothers, despite the fact that she looked like them, with dark wavy hair like Sherlock’s and a profile that reminded him of Mycroft’s. Just in case, he reiterated his standing order for earplugs.

“Where is Mr. Holmes?” he asked a PC on one of the corridors. 

“Some MI5 looking types made him go to hospital. He wasn’t best pleased, I can tell you that.” No, no, he wouldn’t have been.

Security systems were up and running again. He made sure the prison was staffed and the former staffers were loaded onto the boat. Reinforcements from the Home Office and some other agency that it seemed almost illegal for him to know about would arrive throughout the night. He was needed elsewhere now.

When Lestrade arrived at the University Hospital of Cardiff at about 10:00 pm, Mycroft was filling out paperwork to check himself out Against Medical Advice. A tall, pale doctor, who looked like he wasn’t used to having his authority challenged, was haranguing him, and a nurse was hovering about, interjecting comments like “most irregular”. Ordinarily, Mycroft would have flattened them both with one arched eyebrow and a quote in Latin, but he looked very distracted, and kept looking up from his forms to gaze into the distance. Time for Lestrade to do his movie policeman bit. He took a moment to arrange his warrant card for maximum effect and swooped in.

“DI Lestrade. New Scotland Yard. Here for Mr. Holmes. Are we ready to go then?”

“Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft evenly.

“You aren’t taking this man into custody?” said the doctor, drawing himself up to his full height. Lestrade regarded the man coolly.

“Mr. Holmes is assisting in our inquiries, and they are very time sensitive, at least, according to the Home Secretary, Dr. - , what did you say your name was again?”  
The doctor huffed something about “patients to see,” and hurried off. Lestrade looked at the nurse as if he were pretty certain she had eleven unpaid parking summonses. She clamped her lips tightly and continued to regard them disapprovingly, as Lestrade put a hand under Mycroft’s elbow and ushered him out of the hospital’s front doors and onto the street. 

“I’m just here.” Lestrade motioned down a side street. The night was cool, and Mycroft looked pale and clammy. He walked as if he wasn’t really seeing where he was going. When they got to his car, Lestrade had to open the door for Mycroft, because he kept fumbling with the latch. Lestrade got into the car, and turned to look at Mycroft. He reached over to put a hand on Mycroft’s forehead. The other man flinched. “Sorry, I should have warned you, but your temperature seems really low. I don’t have to be a doctor to see that. The staff at the hospital was probably worried you might be going into shock.” Lestrade stopped for a moment, then he continued, not looking directly at Mycroft. “We see that a lot.”

“Among victims?” said Mycroft, with a hint of irony in his voice.

“Among people who have seen something traumatic. It can be quite serious. We’ll take precautions.” Lestrade got out of the car and opened the boot. He returned carrying a rather garish plaid blanket. He draped it over Mycroft. He closed his door and turned on the engine, turning the heater on full blast. He headed for the main road.

“You know, Mycroft, sometimes there aren’t any good choices. I know you are used to being in control of every situation, but sometimes we have…limits imposed on us from outside. We do the best we can. It seems like your best isn’t good enough, but really, it’s just that ‘good’ isn’t an option you’ve been given.” Lestrade stopped. He looked over at Mycroft, who was staring at his wingtips. He knew if he said anything more, Mycroft would probably lose control completely. Some people could hold it together in a crisis, but fell apart the minute anyone showed them some sympathy. Lestrade didn’t think some kind of emotional catharsis would really help Mycroft now. He probably needed to sleep.

Lestrade concentrated on merging onto the highway, which took a few minutes. He looked over at Mycroft, who was leaning against the door, his eyelids fluttering. The car was really warm now. A few kilometers later, he had nodded off. Lestrade reached over to put a hand on the other man’s forehead. He seemed warmer. Lestrade had to resist a sudden urge to stroke his hair. He also realized that he’d been wanting to do that for a while. 

Mycroft slept through the rest of the journey, including a stop for petrol and the worst cup of coffee of Lestrade’s life. Despite the light traffic at this hour, they arrived at Mycroft’s house after 1:30 am, and Mycroft began to stir as the car slowed. Lestrade parked as near as he could to Mycroft’s front door, and opened the passenger side door. With a quick glance around for peering neighbors, Lestrade took Mycroft’s arm. Mycroft kept dropping his keys and barely remembered his passcode. Lestrade ended up taking the keys and ushered Mycroft inside. In the hallway, Mycroft looked as if he was about to bid Lestrade farewell, but the detective inspector cut him off.

“I think you should sleep some more.” Mycroft nodded. He stumbled on the stairs. Lestrade caught him, and half carried him the rest of the way. 

“Sorry, sorry,” mumbled Mycroft.

“Back in my misspent youth, I had a few flatmates who arrived home the worse for wear. I’ve a bit of practice at this.” Lestrade tried to keep his tone light, but wasn’t really sure that was what was wanted. Keeping his arm around Mycroft, although it probably wasn’t strictly necessary, Lestrade ushered him into what looked like the master suite. He decided to give Mycroft some privacy, and discreetly repaired through a door on the other side of the room, which, fortunately turned out be the lavatory, with a door to a larger bathroom. A much larger bathroom. Was that a sofa in there?

Lestrade used the facilities, and splashed some water on his face. He needed a shave and about ten hours sleep. Why was he suddenly conscious of how he looked? Best not to ponder the answer to that too closely. He took off his coat and shoes, and carried them out into the bedroom. Mycroft had changed into some black pajamas, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. He looked up when Lestrade entered the room. Lestrade felt a hitch in his chest when he saw the despair in Mycroft’s eyes.

“My brother sent you, didn’t he?”

“He did. I think I’d be here anyway, though. He sort of gave me carte blanche.” Lestrade hesitated. “Can you sleep?”

“Perhaps. No…I don’t know.” Mycroft looked at his feet again, a million miles away. Lestrade went into the palatial bathroom and rummaged around. He found a container of some kind of oil. Fortunately, it was labeled in French. He looked at the list of ingredients: apricot and grapeseed oils. Well, it would have to do. He hesitated. He was walking a fine line here. He needed to provide comfort, not pressure.

He went back out, turned out the overhead light, and sat next to Mycroft on the bed. 

“Let’s see if we can get you to sleep,“ he said, putting his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. He reached over and began unbuttoning Mycroft’s pajama shirt. 

“Gregory, I don’t think I can…”

“I don’t have anything strenuous planned,” said Lestrade, gently pushing Mycroft to lie on his stomach. He flipped up the now loose shirt. He put some of the oil on his hands. He began rubbing Mycroft’s shoulder blades. Mycroft stiffened initially. Gradually he began to relax, but it took a while. Mycroft was thin but sinewy, probably from all of that fencing, thought Lestrade wryly. That made it easier to discern that he was, unsurprisingly, remarkably tense. Eventually, his muscles began to loosen, as Greg’s warm hands ran over them. He sighed slightly.

“Did all of your worse-for-wear flatmates get this treatment as well?” Greg was glad to hear the old Mycroft peeking through the gloom.

“One or two,” he said, smiling.

“…wonder they ever let you out of the flat,” mumbled Mycroft. His breathing was slowing now. Finally, he slept. Greg pulled the bedclothes over him.

Greg felt relief, followed by a bone weariness. If he tried to drive home now, he’d probably put the car in a ditch within two blocks. Mycroft still didn’t seem to be quite safe left alone. If Greg was honest with himself, though, he also just didn’t want to leave. The thing he liked most about aging was his increasing fearlessness. A connection with another person was rare enough, and he wanted to see it through. No need to dither around. He took off and folded his jacket, shirt, and trousers, and put his phone and keys at the top of the pile on a chair. He just about made it under the duvet before sleep took him. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft woke early the next morning. For a brief moment, he began to get up as if beginning his usual routine. Then he remembered. The bodies, the deaths – his fault. He felt a dull emptiness. He had caused deaths before, but never without the sense that he was saving 10 lives for each lost. The greater good. These deaths had been senseless, arbitrary. Weren’t they then necessarily preventable?

He heard slow breathing next to him. He looked over. Gregory looked quite peaceful, if a bit disheveled. No one had ever spent the night here before, and yet Mycroft was not alarmed to see Gregory there. (He was, truth to be told, a bit alarmed about not being alarmed.) He was grateful for the distraction. It was not clear to him when he had come to trust Gregory so much and with so much. It had begun, he must suppose, with the sense that he had had that he could trust Lestrade with Sherlock. At the time, he thought that sense had come with careful vetting, but now he knew that it had been a more… intuitive reaction. He had considered no one else when asking for someone to secure Eurus. It wasn’t just the need for organization and discretion. Who else would have asked fewer questions?

Last night, Mycroft had awakened in the night with a gasp, his heart pounding. All he had been able to see was the look of terror in the eyes of those men as they plummeted to their deaths. Then he had felt a hand on his shoulder, and a low voice had said “Mycroft? Alright then. It was a dream, and it’s over. Back to sleep.” For some reason, Mycroft had allowed Gregory to push him back down on the bed, and he had followed instructions. His last waking memory had been Gregory stroking his hair, something he could not even remember his mother’s having done. 

Gregory woke then and regarded Mycroft with what seemed a dispassionate look. 

“Morning. How are you then?” Mycroft waved his hand in a peremptory gesture. 

“I don’t really know,” Mycroft responded heavily. He picked up his phone from the nightstand. “As I suspected, a summons from my superiors at ‘my earliest convenience,’ which of course means at their earliest convenience.” Lestrade looked about awkwardly. 

“I’ll need to get in to deal with the lot from Sherrinford, “he said, grabbing his trousers. Mycroft stopped him.

“Gregory, thank you for – for your assistance last night. I won’t forget it – any of it.”

“No worries.” Mycroft could hear that the lightness in Gregory’s tone was forced. 

“If you wish to shower, there is a guest bathroom down the hall to your left with towels.” 

“Thanks. You must have a lot of guests” 

No, just the one. Mycroft wondered if he would see Lestrade again – like this.

Arriving downstairs, dressed in his usual impeccable three piece armor, Mycroft felt a semblance of himself again. Lestrade was waiting by the front door, in yesterday’s shirt, hair damp, finally shaved. Mycroft felt a sudden pang of longing that he tamped down quickly. 

“They won’t fire you, you know. You have too much on them.” Mycroft almost smiled. It was, of course, utterly true. Of course, there were ways of finessing a resignation out of one… Greg spoke again. “Mycroft – I’ll come again tonight, yeah?” Mycroft cleared his throat. 

“You don’t need to…”

“But I’d like to. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with this sort of thing if you are not alone. If you have some…distractions, so you aren’t living too far inside your own head.”

Elvis had rather left the building on that one.

“Alright. I may be late.”

“I can’t make a lot of guarantees as to time either, but I’ll be here.” Lestrade impulsively reached over and hugged him with one arm. Mycroft froze. Lestrade swept out the door, nearly colliding with a man who was walking a small dog.

****************

Evening found Mycroft sitting alone in his home theater watching an Ealing Studios film. A simpler time, when the goals of a minor government functionary like himself were clear. 

“My dad loved this one.” Mycroft jumped about three feet, as Lestrade entered the room. 

“Gregory, how did you get in?”

“Factory bleeding settings on your sensors! I’d give your security team an earful if they worked for me. You also gave me your password last night.”

“The system was replaced in a hurry.”

“So I gathered on Thursday. I reprogrammed your sensors to something a bit more random just now.”

“You were here Thursday?” Now Mycroft was puzzled. Oh yes, the explosion. “I’m sorry that your squad was inconvenienced by that unnecessary investigation, Gregory.” Mycroft noticed the frown on Lestrade’s face. 

“It took the arson boys hours of sifting to determine that Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson weren’t killed. You weren’t answering my texts about Sherlock…” If Mycroft hadn’t known better, he would say Lestrade had been worried. Lestrade changed the subject. “I hadn’t expected you back this early.”

“Nor I you.” Mycroft hoped that deflection would work. It did at first.

“I had expected to be tied up with two dozen cases of Sherrinford personnel and miles of testimony to sort out. Instead, I got a call from the CPS saying that the cases had been bargained down to time served, if they all resigned and agreed to seal their records. Your Lady Alicia doesn’t miss a trick, does she?”

No, thought Mycroft bitterly, she does not.

“So I just had to close out all two dozen cases, and promise to give up a kidney if ever I breathed a word outside those walls.” Lestrade stopped. “You look like your day was less cut and dried. I – I brought sandwiches. Why don’t you eat something, and then you can tell me what happened.”

The deflection wouldn’t work forever, then, but the sandwich was something of a reprieve. They watched the last of the film in a companionable silence. When it ended, Lestrade spoke.

“So, your meetings.”

“Indeed. “ Mycroft looked away. “I have been placed on leave for three weeks. They want a psychiatric evaluation before I return. Ostensibly, this is to deal with my trauma. Really, though they are punishing me, and it will mean a permanent transfer off of Eurus’ case.” Mycroft sighed “It is perhaps no more than I deserve. I played God, and God does not exist. I cannot help but wonder, though, whether they truly understand with whom they are dealing.”

“Do you mean Eurus or you?”

“Both I suppose.” My God, he was nattering on like his mother to one of her maiden sisters. 

Mycroft thought back to the meeting that morning. His superiors had been displeased with his account, truthful though it may have been. His lapse in judgment in bringing Moriarty to the island, his underestimation of Eurus, and his overestimation of the immunity of her jailers to her presence were all duly noted. Her correct predictions of various terrorist attacks and financial crises were of course, points in his favor, and possibly what saved his job. It galled him though, the way they gleefully picked at his weakness: his family. 

“We had always thought you were immune to emotional entanglements, Mycroft. Perhaps you are just human after all.” Oh, that was rich coming from Tippy Malahyde. His family had inbred themselves right out of anything resembling a chin six generations ago. Tippy had the intellect of a turnip, and the only reason he wasn’t living in a bedsit in Croydon was that his family had had at least six manors, so they just sold off one per generation. 

“Maybe that will be for the best. Maybe you need a break. You’ve been through something traumatic. Your sister tried to get your brother to shoot you.” Lestrade broke into his reverie.

“I don’t think not working will change that fact. It will only give me more time to think about it.” Lestrade nodded.

“After a death during arrest, rare as they are, or the death of a partner, we make an officer take two weeks and see a psychologist. I don’t know. Maybe that’s too much free time to think. The therapists help, though. Oh, none of the lads will ever admit it, but they help. They are just so neutral. When you are second guessing your own every past move, they can stop you thinking in circles.”

Mycroft was skeptical. Every psychotherapist of his acquaintance had, at best, a lower second class degree and a streak of narcissism a mile wide. Still, it was true that talking to someone who had never met his family could be… restful. It was also true that the cognitive behaviorists made it a point to stop one from thinking in circles. Anyway, he already felt a bit better, talking to Greg. He could see why suspects tended to confess to Lestrade. He was…reassuring.

Lestrade continued, “in the meantime, maybe you need a distraction.” He moved deliberately close to Mycroft on the sofa. Mycroft’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed.  
“A distraction?” This was probably a mistake. An entanglement here in his home. With someone he might need to see again. With someone he…well in his immediate circle, and all that. But Gregory was sliding an arm around his shoulders and leaning into him, kissing him, gently at first, but then insistently, and Mycroft found himself responding. He suddenly became very aware of his surroundings: his suit jacket brushing his thigh, the whine of a motorcycle engine in the distance, the feel of Greg’s lips on his, and the other man’s quiet murmurs.

He was also rather surprised. He had deduced that Greg played for both teams, so to speak. Not from any overt signals. Men of their age generally still weren’t as open in discussing such things as the younger people. Nonetheless, Mycroft had observed a few clues: certain gleam in the eye when David Beckham was discussed, a glance at a passing barman that had lingered a bit longer than necessary, an oblique reference to visiting a particular club in his youth. No, what surprised him was that Greg was a handsome man; Mycroft had certainly noticed that. He had further assumed that Lestrade could have whatever sort of companionship he wanted. Mycroft never really thought about himself as anyone’s potential romantic partner, but if he had been asked whether someone like Greg Lestrade would be interested in a liaison with someone like him, he would have assigned it a rather low probability. 

Gregory stood.  
“Come on, mate, upstairs. I’m a bit too old for sofas. The whole point of growing older is having the sense and wherewithal to use a decent mattress.”

Just so.

Mycroft was not without experience, but his assignations had always been fleeting events, free of entanglement. He believed emotional investments to be wasteful of time, but also potentially dangerous. Granted, his proclivity for men was no longer the liability that it had been when he had first joined the Foreign Office. Still, any emotional entanglement was a spot of weakness, a vulnerability that could be exploited, and of course, a distraction. Certainly, he enjoyed his sentimental classic films, but these were a harmless pleasure, were they not? He supposed that a Freudian might say that these represented a subconscious desire for closeness, and then would have prattled on about his mother and her emotional neglect. Freudian hypotheses had, of course, done poorly when tested empirically in actual experiments. These beliefs notwithstanding, Mycroft also believed that allowing himself to become too desperate would be an equally dangerous point of weakness.

Every 6 months to a year, he allowed himself to be scheduled for a meeting or conference in one of the banking capitals: Frankfurt, Geneva, Luxembourg. His club in London had reciprocity agreements that gave him privileges at certain exclusive clubs in other cities. He had found those counterparts a useful place to find like-minded men who were practically pre-screened for their lack of desire to cause him trouble: men with names like Rainer and Andreas, with UBS and Credit Suisse leather portfolios that they placed temporarily on the nightstand, and with tan lines on their fingers that hinted at wedding rings hastily stuffed into the coin pockets of their trousers. They needn’t have hidden them from Mycroft. He preferred partners with needs for discretion similar to his own. These couplings were polite and genteel, and temporary and clinical. 

Gregory though, was not clinical. He brought a warmth with him that Mycroft had never experienced, and his every touch was suffused with regard and affection. Partners did not usually undress him slowly. No one had ever before bothered to kiss his neck or really, to kiss him much at all. The whispered endearments in his ear in French were a complete surprise. He had never really imagined himself as anyone’s “cher” anything. Gregory apparently was also a firm believer in reciprocity. Mycroft supposed he should have expected an egalitarian mindset from a Labour voter. (This was it then. He was sworn off Tories for good.) Also, none of his previous assignations had ever pulled the blankets back over him, wrapped their arms around him, and settled in for the night. 

“Your French is very good,” he murmured.

“My name is LE-strade,” said Greg.

“So your father’s mother taught you?”

“How did you…”

“Well, it had to be a paternal relative, and mothers are usually better about transmitting cultural heritage…”

“I also studied it in school. Only O-level I bothered with.” That bit in Gregory’s file had given Mycroft some moments of pondering when he first read it seven years ago. “I already knew I wanted to be a copper. I figured it would be useful. It has been.”

“You are referring to your infiltration and arrest of several smuggling rings from the continent – cigarettes and heroin, I believe.” He could feel Greg’s laughter.

“From now on, I only date men with dossiers on me. Cuts back on the need for small talk. But yeah, it comes in handy to be able to pretend to be Marcel de Marseille ou Bertrand de Bourgogne.”

“Has your degree from the Open University been equally useful?”

“For my career, having the piece of paper has been useful. It’s a lot easier to come up through the ranks with the right buzzwords on the c.v. For me personally, it’s mostly been useful in convincing me to look at a problem from multiple sides,” Greg laughed again. “It was the 90’s. I’m not sure I can really explain anything I did during that decade.”

Quite.

Mycroft could feel himself drifting. Before he slept, he recalled reading the transcript of Sherlock’s statement to the police who responded at Musgrave. How, the police had wanted to know, did he get this dangerous criminal to surrender. Sherlock had replied,

“She doesn’t really understand how to relate to people, how to treat them or reach them. I had to show her how to regain my trust by recognizing how important my friend was to me. She wanted to do it, because I’m her brother.” 

Sherlock had figured it out for all of them, how to connect without losing himself. It was too late for Eurus to learn from Sherlock’s discovery, but maybe he himself could benefit. He looked up at Gregory. He was willing to try.  
 


	3. Chapter 3

Greg Lestrade always woke at 6:30 am, even on the Sundays he was off work, like today. His body clock just couldn’t reset these days. The winter darkness meant that little light came through the tiny cracks in the curtains, and for the first few seconds of wakefulness, he wondered blearily where he was. The warm weight of Mycroft sleeping on his chest quickly answered that question for him. He absently put an arm around the sleeping man’s shoulders, idly wondering whether this was the most brilliant thing he’d ever done or the greatest act of stupidity. 

Nothing so melodramatic, probably. Mycroft was not a sentimental sort. They would probably be extremely awkward around each other for the next 8-12 weeks, and then things would probably settle back to normal, as if last night had never happened. A shame really.

Greg had had a quick flurry of concern that maybe he had taken advantage of someone in a state of emotional vulnerability. He’d meant to offer a distraction, and he hadn’t thought that Mycroft would attach too much emotional import to it. In fact, Greg had tried to distract Mycroft by offering, well, emotion. He had tried to show Mycroft as much affection as possible. It didn’t seem that Mycroft, or even Sherlock, had had much of that growing up. Or subsequently. The previous night, Mycroft had certainly known the techniques. In fact, that thing he had done with his…well, suffice to say, Greg would go back for seconds of that anytime. No, it was just that Greg had had to work rather hard at encouraging Mycroft to slow down and enjoy himself. He had had to stop himself from saying “Oi, where’s the fire?” more than once. Probably, he hadn’t scarred the man too much then. 

Plus, well, when it came down to it, he wasn’t going anywhere. If Mycroft needed or wanted more, thought that there was more there than a simple one night stand for stress relief, Greg would be wiling. Okay, if he was honest with himself, he’d be eager, but he really didn’t like to dwell on any circumstance that involved labeling himself with an adjective that he usually reserved for overly keen constables who offered to wash the panda and get tea for the DCI.

In that same spirit, Greg decided to just enjoy the moment. The winter chill in the air (why did the wealthy never heat their homes? Did they miss boarding school that much?) meant that he really appreciated being curled up in bed with someone he rather liked. If, as he suspected, they never had a repeat of this closeness, he could at least remember what it felt like. So he began a sort of catalog of sensation – the feel of the muscles in Mycroft’s shoulders, the smell of their comingled aftershaves, the warmth of the skin pressed against him. Mycroft began to stir. He looked up at Greg, bewildered.

“You are here. Still here, I mean.”

“A gentleman would have called me a taxi, then, eh?”

“I didn’t mean – “

“Relax, Holmes, I’m taking the piss. How are you?” Mycroft smiled wryly. 

“I feel rather better than I deserve, I imagine.” 

Lestrade sighed inwardly. He probably should have expected this. When you are driven by a sense of duty, you can’t just let it go when subordinates die on your watch. It had only happened to Lestrade once, but the face of that young PC still haunted him whenever he had a long drink after an even longer case. Mycroft must feel even worse. What could he do for him though? Normalcy? He’d give it a go. It was about the extent of what he had on offer.

“I think I could do with some fortifying tea and toast about now. How about you?” God, did he sound as much like Penelope Keith as he thought?

Mycroft, still looking a bit puzzled, stood up, his back to Lestrade. From Greg’s angle on the bed, Mycroft was impossibly tall, and sexy in a way that can only be achieved by awkwardness. He shrugged into a dressing gown, and disappeared through the door to the bath suite. He came out with a fluffy white robe and handed it to Greg, who got up to take it. Mycroft looked as though he was trying not to stare. Greg smiled.

“I squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube, so don’t romanticize too much.”

“Philistine,” said Mycroft over his shoulder, as he led Greg downstairs.

Greg put on the kettle, and Mycroft foraged for toast supplies. The easy way in which they divided up the tasks wasn’t lost on Greg. It had really always been this way, especially as they divided up the Sherlock-minding duties. Mycroft had his distaste for legwork, and Greg had always simply had to bow to the fact that Mycroft’s information was superior. Both of them were too polite to mention the fact that Mycroft probably didn’t need to bother with niceties like warrants. 

Mycroft produced some butter and jam from Fortnum and Mason’s. Looking over his shoulder into the fridge, Greg noticed that that, plus a jar of mustard, were pretty much the sole contents of the fridge. Okay, and some pomegranate juice. Did everyone’s doctor give the same speech about prostate health to men over 45? He would have chalked it up to some NHS directive, but he was sure Mycroft didn’t use the NHS. Anyway, he couldn’t cast too many aspersions. His own fridge was usually reasonably full, if only because it was rather small. The contents were either 1) leftover takeaway, 2) something in a plastic container from his sister, and 3) ingredients for the three dishes he could pull off with any reliability, all of which involved baked chicken in some form. His ex-wife had always done the cooking, and while he had discovered that he liked pottering around the kitchen, he just hadn’t had time to develop much skill. 

He didn’t feel quite right inviting himself to stay, but he really didn’t want to leave Mycroft alone. He decided that he needed to risk looking a bit pathetic. 

“You’ve got all of this beautiful parkland around here. Fancy a run later?”

“A…run,” Mycroft looked puzzled.

“Sure. I know you run, I’ve seen the treadmill, and it doesn’t have clean laundry drying on it.”

“Laundry?”

“Among the upstanding British middle class, a treadmill is usually used for a week max, and then it’s relegated to becoming a glorified drying rack for fine washables.” He wondered if there was an Estuary-to-posh function on Google Translate.

“Ah. And you were suggesting that we run…out of doors?” Mycroft looked as if Greg had just suggested that they take a spacewalk or a stroll through a minefield.

“Yeah. I’ve got clothes in the car. I usually have to use the gym at the Yard this time of year, but the sun is out, and well, lots of greenery.” Mycroft still looked hesitant. “It was just a thought. At any rate, I can be off, if you’d prefer…”

“No. Ah. A…run would be fine. I’ll just change.”

Greg went out to his car and got his workout bag out of the trunk. A middle aged couple that Greg mentally named Sebastian and Phillippa came out of the house next door dressed for Sunday brunch and hopped into an SUV. They ignored Greg, still in his robe and some pajamas he’d borrowed from Mycroft, and he followed suit and ignored them. He glanced up and down the street out of habit. A sensible Volvo, a BMW, and a green late model estate car, maybe Subaru? A lot of the drives were hidden behind walls. A bald man walking a shih tzu. All very respectable and top drawer. A scruffy, half-dressed, graying police officer sauntering outside after a one-night liaison with the neighborhood’s token confirmed bachelor, perhaps a bit less so. 

He took his clothes upstairs and walked into Mycroft’s bedroom. Mycroft was tying his shoes. 

“Missed the show, then, did I?” Greg said with a smile. He began stripping while rummaging through his bag. Mycroft looked away. Greg winced. “I’m not taking the mick, Mycroft. I am a bit disappointed. You’ll make it up to me by going first up all of the hills, right?” Mycroft looked as if a stroke was imminent. 

Flirtatious banter off the table, then. Possibly permanently.

They walked outside, Mycroft blinking in the sun as if he’d spent the last 6 months in an underground bunker. 

“Richmond Great Park, then?” Greg was growing increasingly less certain about the whole venture. Maybe his normal wasn’t Mycroft’s normal. 

“Yes,” Mycroft hesitated. “I don’t know the trails well.”

“’S’alright. If the American tourists can find their way back to the Tube, I s’pose we won’t be in need of a search party.” 

“I find your estimate of the Americans’ abilities to be rather optimistic, but nonetheless, point taken.”

Lestrade had a sudden thought.

“You don’t need to let some security team know, do you?”

“What makes you think I haven’t?” said Mycroft, smiling. “I think you might be confusing me with James Bond. Or perhaps Prince Harry. Many do; the red hair, you know. No, my security is largely technological: a state of the art system, as you’ve seen, a satellite phone, a few well-placed panic buttons.”

“Carrying one now, are you?”

“Naturally.” 

“Good,” said Lestrade, decisively. 

They walked to the park, and selected a trail. Greg had been unsure what to expect from Mycroft, but he found himself keenly aware that Mycroft was younger and grateful for every evening spent on the aging equipment in the Yard’s exercise room. He did have the sense that Mycroft was pulling out all the stops to impress him. They arrived back at Mycroft’s house, exhausted and sweating despite the chill winter air. They passed the man with the shih tzu, which clearly had some kind of bladder problem. 

They stepped inside. Greg was still on an adrenaline high. Maybe that made him bolder.  
“I’m for the shower,” he said, removing his shirt. He noticed that Mycroft noticed. Greg turned back. “Joining me then?” He felt that it was some kind of turning point, or at least the hope of garnering one small sign that maybe last night hadn’t been a meaningless fling to Mycroft. Mycroft got up, and wordlessly followed Greg. Okay, that meant they were headed for Mycroft’s shower. As they walked into the bath, Greg turned and put a hand on Mycroft’s side.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You, just, are really sexy like this. If you are feeling like this is too much, just say.” Greg leaned up and kissed Mycroft gently. Mycroft returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around Greg.

Greg thought that it had been a long time since he had felt something as nice as Mycroft’s hands sliding off the bottom half of his track suit. He thought it was even nicer that, as he pulled Mycroft into the shower, Mycroft ran his hands up and down Greg’s chest. When Mycroft’s hands slid lower, Greg decided to stop thinking altogether.

He drove them into Twickenham for a late lunch. There was no food in Mycroft’s house, they didn’t want to run into anyone they knew, and Greg just wanted something with some semblance of vitamins. He was a bit concerned that he had had to really prompt Mycroft to eat. It was clear he was related to Sherlock. The roads were clear, except for a solitary motorcycle rider. Mycroft looked nervous at the prospect of going into a crowded restaurant or pub, so they stopped for sandwiches, parked with a view of the river, and ate. Mycroft at first appeared a bit alarmed at the idea of eating in the car, but after Greg tucked in, he appeared resigned to his fate and began to eat.

“A day of firsts for you?” Greg asked. “Running outside, now eating in the car?”

“Well, not firsts, precisely. Boarding school features rather a lot of running out of doors, even beyond running from the prefects.” Greg decided that this was a Mycroft joke, so he laughed. 

“Tom Brown’s schooldays was it, then?”

“Not quite that bad, but there was more than a passing resemblance to Lord of the Flies. I hear things have gotten better. Parents threaten to sue nowadays,” said Mycroft drily. 

“The lads at the local comprehensive could be a bit rough and all. They were hard enough on anyone who showed any sign of weakness,” said Greg. “I liked playing sports and French class, but I wouldn’t go back to that age. Even to get rid of the aching joints.”

“Not for a king’s ransom,” agreed Mycroft. Greg wasn’t sure how safe childhood reminiscence was at this point, so he changed the subject.  
“Eating in cars, though, that’s second nature to me. These sandwiches are a bit better than the usual stakeout fare, though.”

“Yes, the pesto chicken is quite good.” Mycroft cleared his throat and went on. “Surely you can delegate most stakeouts, though, now.”

“Anything routine, yeah. Just sitting on a potential witness or suspect to see if anything turns up, sure. If it’s a major operation though, with multiple squads, armed response, and forensics, I really have to be there to coordinate. There’s a sort of finesse to getting armed suspects out and the crime scene team in without destroying anything admissible in court. If the suspects start pointing fingers at each other before their briefs arrive, more’s the better, but that has to get recorded in a certain way.” 

“I’m glad you are the one doing it. I’ve have met a few detectives in my time, but they didn’t mention such a need to focus on detail.”

“That’s the problem, though: a lot won’t. It’s why I can’t just let the next shift run my operations. You get to know who in your shop will get the job done, and who is just going through the motions.” 

“Funny, I’ve felt the same way about every Cabinet over the last 20 years.” They both laughed.

On the way back, Greg felt the Sunday afternoon dread. It’s that feeling you get as a kid when you realize that you have school tomorrow, and the drop dead date for that essay is tonight. As an adult, that feeling lingers, except now it’s a mental rundown of whether you have five ironed shirts and a topped up Tube pass. When they arrived at Mycroft’s, he went back in to get his gear, which took an embarrassingly long time, as some of it had been thrown in unlikely corners of Mycroft’s bath.  
“I should probably be heading back home.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Mycroft’s tone was forced. Greg ached a bit for him. He knew Mycroft and Sherlock would be facing their parents tomorrow.

“Seriously, Mycroft, call if you need anything.”

“Of course.” Mycroft was lying, Greg knew it, and he also knew that Mycroft knew he knew it. Greg walked down the front walkway and got into his car. With only a glimmer of hope that he wasn’t seeing this version of Mycroft for the last time, he glanced toward the house. Mycroft tapped in his security code and walked in. He didn’t look back.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft sat in his office with the lights off, with a rather larger whiskey than he would usually drink. What an abysmal day it had been. Rather fitting for a Monday, he supposed. Really, he couldn’t have imagined anything more horrible. His shortcomings as a security operative, a son, and a brother had all been rather neatly explained to him. The worst part was that he had little argument in his own defense. Honestly, they were right. 

The fact that he’d already had a couple of days reprieve before facing all of this had really been Sherlock’s doing. Inadvertently of course. The day after the…Unpleasantness, he had been suspended from work, and had been sitting at home, before Greg had arrived, when he had received a call. 

“I know we need to tell Mummy and Father, but I need to put that off for a couple of days. “ The reason why had been apparent momentarily after that. Mycroft could hear a truly horrible hacking cough in the background. Mycroft knew what that sort of cough meant. Doctor Watson’s time nearly drowning in a partially sealed well had probably had him inhaling all kinds of horrific bacteria, which had now taken up residence in his lungs in the form of pneumonia. He wasn’t surprised. The driver he’d arranged to drive Sherlock and John back to London that previous night had told him, 

“That doctor fellow what was with your brother? He was having a tough time. Shook like a leaf across most of the Home Counties, he did. Your brother was piling him in coats and blankets, but it didn’t do much good.”

He heard Sherlock turn from the phone and murmur “…under the blankets. I’ll fetch you some tea in a minute.”

Fetch tea? Sherlock? Good God, the man must be near death.

“That’s fine. Tell Doctor Watson that I will have courses of several broad spectrum antibiotics sent over to…your temporary abode. He can use his judgment.”

“I – thank you,” said Sherlock. If he had expected more of an argument, Mycroft wouldn’t know why. He had dreaded telling his parents about his deception. The few days reprieve wouldn’t have been unwelcome in any case, even if he hadn’t been inclined to give Sherlock whatever he wanted. Whether it was a reward for not shooting him, for not being dead, or for bringing Eurus in, he couldn’t have said for certain.

The fact that Mycroft had then had that evening and the next day free, and that that that time had been one of the most pleasant of his life, had been an unexpected bonus. He wasn’t certain what he had done to deserve Greg. Quite the opposite; he didn’t think he had done much to deserve anything from anybody at that point. Yet, to suddenly have access to all of that warmth, affection, friendship – things he had told himself that he didn’t need – was both remarkable and bewildering. He had no idea whether what they had shared would be repeated. He hoped so, but his experience really didn’t extend to maintaining relationships. Well, not with anyone but Sherlock. 

His hopes were also quite vague. He had never allowed himself to contemplate a future with anyone, so he hadn’t a single idea what he would like that to look like. He supposed that, if asked, he would take “more of the same please.” Maybe every day, forever. 

That seemed an impossibility, though. Surely Gregory would see all of the same things his parents saw, or Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson, for that matter: the unfeeling incompetence in anything that mattered.

And anyway, this past morning, the pleasantness had come to an end. His parents and Sherlock had been driven to his office.  
He and Sherlock had met their parents at his office. They had broken the news there. His father had been practically catatonic for 10 full minutes when he heard his daughter was still alive. His mother’s reaction had been different. She had exploded at him. The usual epithets from his childhood had been bandied about: “idiot boy”, “what were you thinking”, “for someone so clever, you’re painfully stupid,” etc. Mycroft had expected all of that. The fact that his mother was often rather like Sherlock wearing a twin set and pearls made her behavior rather predictable. The first time she had exclaimed “Boring!,” at one of his teacher conferences had been the last time Mycroft had expected the conventional social niceties from her. 

He hadn’t expected them to seem so traumatized. They were genuinely heartbroken that Eurus had grown up without them. Uncle Rudy had been so sure that this had been the best way. 

“People like your parents won’t be able to handle it, Mycroft. Their set doesn’t have murdering sociopaths in the family,” Rudy had said adamantly over a nice cream tea in the private dining room at the Diogenes. To Mycroft, a young MI5 employee, ostensibly in the Foreign Office, it had made sense. He had been shocked to discover his sister was still alive; the family had been told she was dead when he was in his first year of university. Even if he hadn’t agreed, he hadn’t been in the position to rock the boat, anyway. Not then. 

Was there something special about the parent child relationship? Mycroft wouldn’t know. Despite the fact that he had been the only child for seven years, he had never been that close to his parents. His father’s idea of parenting was to pat him on the head and give him a ten pence piece. His mother had never quite understood his quiet, dispassionate nature, so she let herself get caught up in Sherlock, and later, Eurus. Mycroft had let himself get caught up in them too. However, the fact of the matter was that he still wasn’t sure that Rudy was wrong, deep down. Did his parents realize what it would have been like to live with the knowledge of what Eurus had become? Would they be able to live with it now? Mycroft wasn’t so sure. And yet, when Sherlock had shot Charles Magnussen, Mycroft had been bitterly disappointed, but he had never stopped loving him. Perhaps his parents should not have been denied that love. Perhaps.

One undisputable error that he had committed had been to try to harness Eurus, to use her for the common good. That had been arrogance on his part, probably an unwillingness to admit that Eurus, without any of the advantages of education and experience that he had had, could still think circles around him. 

His parents had looked to Sherlock for solutions. He knew why they did it, of course. They could never admit to themselves how much Mycroft had been left to manage: Sherlock’s drug habit, the family investments, and now, they learned, a murderous sister. Perhaps here he needed to admit the fact that he had never tried to hide his contempt for his parents and their concerns. His parents’ lives had seemed like irrelevant detail compared to the luminescence of his younger siblings and his own studies. Maybe this had exacerbated matters.

Sherlock, to his credit, had tried defending Mycroft, but it hadn’t been any use. His parents had insisted on going to Sherrinford. Mycroft called in every favor he still had to get them some access, but in the end, it had been as fruitless as he had thought. She wouldn’t speak to them or even look at them. As if in tribute to her, they had all left the island in silence. He sent them home from his office in a car, exhausted after a 14 hour day. He dropped Sherlock off on his way home. Before they reached his destination, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the antibiotics. John is much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“They’ll…”

“Get over it? Perhaps not.”

“I was going to say that they’ll speak to you again.”

“Certainly. Father doesn’t understand the statements from the trust, and Mummy won’t be bothered.”

“Boring!” shouted Sherlock. When this failed to elicit a reaction from Mycroft, he changed tactics. “They suspended you for several weeks at work, I should imagine.”

“Naturally.”

“So it’s been two days. Shouldn’t that be over by now?”

“I calculated three to four days, depending on the situation in Egypt.”

“Oh, well then. You have time to fit in some Pilates.” The car pulled up to Sherlock’s temporary accommodation. “Lestrade, did he…?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Sherlock had leapt from the car.

Mycroft regarded his whiskey dispassionately. He wasn’t hungry. Just as well, as his refrigerator had some pomegranate juice, a jar of mustard, and a few protein shakes. It was 11 pm anyway. He glanced out the window. His phone rang. Surprised, he checked the screen. Lestrade. Hesitating, he finally picked up the call.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

“I’m just, uh, well, just checking in, really. You met with your parents, then?

“Yes.”

“It sounds like it went about as well as you thought it would.”

“Yes.” Mycroft knew he sounded obnoxious, but he was tired and barely coherent. A motorcycle whined in the distance. This was Greg, though. He couldn’t just let the man slip through his fingers out of diffidence. What could he say? The truth? “I fear that I have wronged them irrevocably, and they seem to agree. Yet, all of the alternative courses of action I could have taken seem equally bleak. ” Greg was quiet. Mycroft feared he had finally managed to shock the man. Finally, Greg spoke.

“How much of this did you really decide, though, Mycroft? If your sister has been incarcerated since adolescence, that isn’t on you.”

“Well, no, I – Uncle Rudy made the initial decision about her disposition, and to tell us that she had died. I could have told them though. At any time during the last 20 years.”

“So, what stopped you?”

“My belief that the truth would have been beyond their capacity to handle. Even at 13, Eurus had more deaths in her wake than Victor Trevor.”

“Maybe you should have trusted them with it. Parents have a surprising capacity to love the worst child.”

“Hmmm...perhaps” Said Mycroft. He wasn’t so sure about his parents and their ability to love. Perhaps if it had been Sherlock… No matter. Greg could clearly hear the doubt in his tone. 

“It’s not easy to be the one who has to take all of the action,” he said softly. Mycroft could feel the wistfulness in his words. It was the voice of experience.

“You are the middle child, yes, Greg?” Lestrade laughed.

“That obvious is it? I know you have a dossier on me, but you probably didn’t need it to figure that out. Lucky for you though. If my older brother had been running the crime scene where Sherlock first showed up high as a kite, Mr. Holmes the Younger would have been sent away with a flea in his ear. Not really invested in other people’s goals, our Paul. Fortunately, he was always off finding himself, and he mostly runs an ashram in Pondicherry these days. Mind you, he makes a dead tasty biriyani the years that he’s home for Christmas dinner.”

Mycroft smiled, but he could hear what wasn’t being said.

“Off on a lot of adventures, was he?”

“Yeah. I was more of the homebody: putting up the screens in the summer, walking the dog, playing referee between Paul and my sister. So when my dad got ill two years ago, everyone sort of assumed I’d just handle things. My sister and her husband live near my mum, but Emily has the boys and her nursery students, and Gordon manages a DIY store. They don’t like to ask a lot of questions about things outside their daily routine. I’m not sure they even vote. It was sort of on me to research the cancer, set up dad’s appointments, you know, with specialists, arrange for carers near the end.” Greg paused. “Course, everyone else felt entitled to give an opinion.”

“Naturally.” Mycroft glanced out the front window. The bald man with the puddly shih tzu walked past. Not for the first time, Mycroft felt a kinship with Greg. “And, of course, they had plenty of suggestions that were either impossible or that involved a lot of work that they were unwilling to do.”

“Got it in one. I didn’t kick up a fuss. Mum was in pieces as it was. And in the end, well, I was grateful for the time with my dad. He was the man I always wanted to be: hard working, always there when we needed him, stoic. It’s true what they say, that service is its own reward. I mean, if we didn’t believe that, we wouldn’t have our jobs would we?”

Mycroft wondered if Greg understood just exactly how much he had lived up to his father’s example.

“Alright, that’s me going on about myself then. Score one to you, Mycroft, that I don’t catch it when you use deflection techniques on me that I’ve used on suspects for years. And now I can hear you smiling through the phone.“ (Mycroft smiled more broadly.) “Anyway, you’ve played that same part in your family, but the cost has been much greater. I hope you’ll take the suggestion to talk to someone.”

“I shall consider it.”

“You can always call me, day or night, you know. I mean, to talk, if you want”

“I – thank you, Greg.”

“Speaking of which, you were suspended for three weeks. That was two days ago. Is it over yet?”

Mycroft wondered if he should be worried that so few people believed in his insignificance.

“I calculated tomorrow or Wednesday, depending on the situation in Egypt.”

“Alright. You saw the Great I Am today, too, right. Where is he staying?”

“Until the Baker St. flat is repaired, he and John are staying in something called an AirBnB.” 

Lestrade laughed, “I hope the owner got a huge security deposit.” He paused again. “Mycroft, your parents, they’ll come round. You’re their son after all.”

“Thank you Greg. Goodnight then.” He hadn’t meant to sound dismissive, but he was exhausted, and frankly didn’t know whether he accepted Greg’s premise. He himself had rejected the idea that Eurus was due any consideration by virtue of being their child.

“Goodnight, Mycroft. “

That night, Mycroft had a dream about his sister taunting him with body after body. Then he had a relatively good dream about eating sandwiches in a car.


	5. Chapter 5

Gregory Lestrade, shivering almost uncontrollably, dragged himself over the threshold of the manse on a quiet, but exclusive, street in Richmond. He was grateful that he had programmed the sensor patterns himself just two weeks before. It made it easier to dodge the lasers, and he didn’t want to set off the alarm. Or call any attention to himself really. It wouldn’t do to get the neighbors talking about his host, and he was in a complete state, so much so that he was quite likely to be mistaken for one of the burglars that he usually put away. He was fortunate that the rain that had turned to sleet, destroyed his stakeout, and left him half frozen had also cleared the streets. 

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t just trespass on a friend’s good offices like this, but he was not really in any shape to make it very far. His own fault, really. He should have been better prepared, stashing back-up gear. In his own defense, he could argue that a whole slew of things had just gone pear-shaped, and while he could have anticipated some or even most of them, no one would probably have anticipated all of them. Okay, well perhaps his host would have, but despite that, he had some hope of a decent reception. Hope might be a strong word.

Mycroft’s three week suspension had been lifted the day after he had met with his parents, things in Egypt being what they were. That had been two weeks ago. 

The only thing he had heard from Mycroft in that time had been a cryptic text asking if he had noticed a man walking a dog in Mycroft’s neighborhood. His affirmative reply had led to a follow up phone call from Anthea regarding the particulars of the fellow with the Shih tzu. (“Bald, non descript, tweed clothes. I mean the bloke not the dog.” “Of course, Detective Inspector.”)

So, his initial suspicion that Mycroft had not been looking for anything long term appeared to be correct. Disappointing, but nothing he hadn’t considered as a possibility before going into all of this. Hopefully, though, they were on friendly enough terms that Greg could get a bit of aid, here. Maybe a shower, 30 minutes use of the clothes dryer, a call for a nice heated taxi to the Tube stop or the Overland. Mycroft might even be asleep. Greg hoped Mycroft didn’t have company. That would be a bit of a blow and a social faux pas all at once.

In truth, he thought it might be for the best if he greeted his host in the morning.

As he reached up to enter the passcode into the security system, he noted that it hadn’t been changed. If his teeth weren’t chattering so badly, he might be flattered. There was a slight crunching as he moved his arm. Fuck, was that ice forming on the sleeve of his jumper?

The door opened. Gregory stepped in, and was relieved that the house was reasonably warm. Not abundantly so, mind. His host would have retired earlier and the programmable thermostat would automatically have lowered the temperature. Still, it was better than the deep freeze going on outside. 

The house was dark, and he crept upstairs. He turned into the guest bathroom on the main floor, turning on only the lights around the mirror. He undressed with difficulty, as his fingers were half frozen. He got into the shower and turned on the hot water. It felt good at first, but after a while, it simply didn’t seem to help. 

He was still shivering uncontrollably when the overhead light in the bathroom went on.

“Gregory?”

Greg felt a bit sheepish. He was naked in the man’s house, without any prior permission. The fact that he couldn’t stop his teeth chattering didn’t exactly add extra dignity to his situation.

“Hullo M-Mycroft. Sorry to wake you. I had a stakeout for a drugs operation in Kew Gardens, and I was the c-contact. “

“Drugs in Kew, a United Nations World Heritage site? Is nothing sacred?” 

“I know, r-r-right? Young people today have no respect for institutions. At any rate, the c-contact never showed, I was drenched by the sudden s-s-leetstorm, my back up got called away, and they took off with my extra gear and my phone in the trunk.”

“Greg, how long have you been trying to get warm? “ 

“D-dunno. 15 minutes?

“I think the water evaporating off of you is preventing you from getting warm. Is that ice on what I presume is your jumper? Never mind. Come out at once. I think you should dry off. “

Greg reluctantly turned off the taps. He began shivering again in earnest. The shower door opened, and he was surprised that Mycroft, dressed in navy pajamas, pulled him out and bundled him into one of those hotel style dressing gowns. 

“Th-thanks”

Mycroft embraced him briefly, and Greg felt Mycroft’s cheek against his forehead. 

“You’re like ice, Greg. We need to raise your temperature.”

Mycroft was not particularly strong physically, but the force of his personality was usually enough to get people to follow his lead, so Greg simply went along with being hustled down the hall and into Mycroft’s bed. It was nice to sink into the sheets. Greg didn’t feel much warmer though. It suddenly struck him that he was exhausted and a bit lightheaded, and that he was starting to see glimpses of the old Mycroft. He watched as Mycroft adjusted the temperature on the wall thermostat, took off and meticulously folded his own pajamas, and wrapped himself around Greg. 

“First aid for hypothermia is direct skin to skin contact. “ 

“That seems a bit convenient.”

“I assure you, you can look it up.”

“No complaints here, but your brother’s right; you are bloody Wikipedia.” Greg was finally starting to feel a bit warmer. 

“Naturally. At any rate, we will need to monitor you for signs of cardiac distress and – “

“Mycroft, not reassuring.”

“Oh, yes of course. Well, if you have hypothermia symptoms, most victims make a full recovery, and of course, I will be here as long as you need.”

“Better.” Greg’s exhaustion began to overtake him. It was nice here, on Mycroft’s chest. Ordinarily, he would have taken advantage of this situation. But then, someone had attached 20 kilo weights to all of his limbs. He was definitely going to issue an official summons when he found the person that did that.

“Greg, are you certain you weren’t followed here?”

“What, Mycroft? I’m no rookie. I won’t lead the riff-raff to your door.”

“No, I – I think there may be other forces at work here. I will need to explain. And I hope that will shed some light on why I haven’t been in contact. I hope you haven’t felt – slighted. I am concerned that – well, that will keep until morning, when you are rested.”

“Thanks. You are a lifesaver.“ Greg tried to curl in closer, discovered that would require breaking the laws of physics, and remained where he was.

“I – I am glad that I am able to be of service here. You have done so much for me.”

His last memory before he drifted off was Mycroft absently rubbing circles on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably suspected that the man with the dog was up to no good.


	6. Chapter 6

Chap 6

Mycroft awoke the next morning at his usual time. In the distance, he could hear the buzz of a snowblower and the low pitched whine of a motorcycle traveling at low speed. Greg was still plastered against his side, but his color and temperature were back to normal. Mycroft breathed an inward sigh of relief. He tentatively stroked Greg’s hair and imagined, just briefly, what it would be like to do this every morning. The thought was sublime. 

Mycroft shook himself. He wasn’t sure what Greg would have to say about his imagined future. At any rate, duty called. He tried to slide out of bed quietly, but just as he stood, Greg woke up. Mycroft sat on the bed next to him. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He almost reached for Greg, but stopped himself. He needed to be sure he would be, well, welcome.

“Much better, thanks, thanks to you. Much less like one of the Shackleton expedition, anyway.” He smiled at Mycroft. This was the opening Mycroft had been waiting for, and, impetuously, he leaned in to kiss Greg, who returned the affection with vigor. This was probably gratitude that Greg felt, but right now, he’d take it.

“Greg, we need to talk about, well, last night.”

“Look, I’m sorry about just showing up like that – “

“No, I’m, as I said, I’m glad you did. Can you explain to me what happened?”

“I would if I could. So we received a tip from a CI that a drug deal was to go down in Kew. The dealer was linked to several fatalities, so my squad got involved. It was sound intel; we intercepted the buyer, and he was my age, so I took his place. I left my warrant card etc. and gear with my backup, which is standard. I waited an hour, but it started to sleet. The next thing I knew, my backup peeled out like a bat out of hell. I expected them to come back for me. They never did. The dealer didn’t show either, lucky for me. I headed here, thinking I could change and call a taxi.”

“Is it standard practice to strand an officer like that?”

“You know it isn’t, which is why I need to call in. Ordinarily, I’d say my lot was about to get an earful, but something odd must have happened. Sal not only wouldn’t violate procedure like that; she wouldn’t have left me hanging.”

Mycroft was silent for a bit. He should just lay it all out. 

“I am concerned that there might be forces targeting me. I had also been concerned that you might be caught up in that.”

“Me? Why...is this about the bloke with the dog? Because he saw us together, and me leaving your house?”

“In a word, yes. Anthea first noticed it shortly after my return. She said she hadn’t seen the man with the dog before. We generally keep an eye on the neighbors; of course we had a look at them all when I moved in. People with the means to buy London property don’t always come by it honestly.”

“That’s why you chose this neighborhood, isn’t it? Not flashy enough for the dodgy element. And you probably aren’t too disappointed about not running into Rowan Atkinson down the shops.”

“Yes,” Mycroft smiled at Greg’s perception. “It’s easy enough to find out when property turns over and make the necessary investigations about any new owners. That’s just it, though. There simply hasn’t been any turnover of property in the surrounding four blocks. A few houses have sold at the edge of the neighborhood, but all to painfully respectable people who are not our dog owner. Further, we have tried running him through our databases using facial recognition software, but he is not, known to the Services, so to speak.”

“I could try running him through ours. With facial recognition, the request will take a while, but he’ll only show up if he’s a bit lower rent than your lot are used to dealing with.”

“Indeed. Perhaps though…” 

“Right. Can you have Anthea text me the best photo? By the way, why haven’t you just run him through our database?”

Mycroft was silent and embarrassed.

“I hadn’t wished to call too much attention to this matter on my end. It might turn out to be… personal.”

“You think it’s your sister?”

Mycroft gave Greg a chagrined look. 

“Either my sister represents a hopeless source of compromise, or I’m being paranoid. Neither is a particularly pleasant thought.” He sighed. 

“She’s pretty thoroughly under guard though, isn’t she? With frequent rotations of personnel, right? And she doesn’t speak.” 

“I believe all of that to be true, but I am not in a position to personally evaluate her situation often. I have managed to obtain permission for Sherlock to visit her regularly, and I think he would report it if he felt there was any attempt on her part to communicate with the outside world. But is he blind to her, as blind as I was? I don’t know.”

Mycroft was surprised as Greg squeezed his hand.

“Well as my sainted mum would say, let’s not go borrowing trouble. I’ll call my team, and find out what happened.”

Mycroft watched as Greg got up slowly. He was probably still feeling the effects of last night. Mycroft went to brew some tea. When he returned, Greg was sitting on the bed, dressed in a vest and boxers. He had circles under his eyes, a hand running through his hair, and the receiver of Mycroft’s seldom used house phone pressed to his ear. Mycroft thought he had never looked so attractive. He handed Greg a mug of tea, and received a mouthed “Thank you” and a small smile in return. Why did this make his heart leap so? He could only hear Greg’s side of the conversation.

“Sal? No, I’m not dead. There’s a what out on me? I suppose I should be touched by the DSI’s concern. He’ll probably dock my pay for the cost of the search time. Where have I been? I could ask you the same. Where did you lot get off to last night? No, wait let’s start from the beginning. I last made contact with you at 21:30 at the access road near the Vistor’s Center. I then went to the south corner of the Palace garden, where the rendezvous was supposed to take place. You were supposed to maintain visual contact with me. Okay, I can see that the sleet made that a bit tricky, and that’s probably what scared our mark away, but I saw you and Roberts peel out at 22:30. What was that about? 

Who? Sal, you mean to tell me that you left your post with an officer in the field on the word of a civilian who claimed that I was injured in a ditch. What next, Sal, helping a man who claimed to have lost a dog? So he was an NHS doctor? I don’t care if Teresa Bloody May asked you, you don’t abandon an officer in the field… he had my what? My warrant card? I’m sorry, Sal. This is a bloody bit much to process at once, and I was in a bit of a state last night.

Me? Well, the buyer never showed, probably for the best. I had no phone, spare gear, or wallet. It was below freezing, I was soaked through, and I had to walk out of the park. I ended up kipping with some mates, but I was dead on my feet, so I basically just passed out. Didn’t think to call in. No, you don’t know them. Yes, I do know one or two respectable people, but don’t you go spreading that about. I take it you’ve been up all night searching? We’ll call it even, then. I’ll be in in about an hour and a half, and we’ll get this sorted.” Greg rubbed his eyes as he hung up the phone.

“You might consider taking the day – “

“We both know that really isn’t possible. We need to get to the bottom of this, and we need to know whatever Sal can tell us. She said some bloke ran up to the car, flashed an NHS badge and MY warrant card, and said I had wandered into a ditch and was badly injured. They went to the location, I wasn’t there, the bloke had scarpered. They couldn’t find me in the sleet, so they went for more help. I might be on the news…oh, damn.” Greg grabbed the phone abruptly.

“Mum? Yeah it’s Greg. Say, have you turned on the telly this morning? Not yet. Well, if you do, and you see me, just ignore it. There’s been a bit of a cock up. Sorry, yes, I’ll watch my language. Right. Right. Hmm. Her gall bladder, really? No, I haven’t spoken to Paul. No, you know he calls on Thursdays. Right. Right. Right, yes, I have to go. My best to Helen about the gall bladder. Love you, bye.” Greg turned to Mycroft. “You’ve just witnessed the shortest phone conversation anyone has ever had with Phyllis Lestrade.”

Mycroft laughed out loud.

“I know the feeling. My mother once held forth for 2 hours on subjects ranging from Euclidean Geometry to something called a boot-scoot, which I believe to be a move in American country line dancing. It was her birthday, so I felt obligated not to interrupt.” 

“And yet you think of yourself as a bad son.”

“It was entirely self-serving. I solved a rather thorny border problem for Bhutan whilst she was orating.” Greg smiled. 

“I wonder what would happen if we introduced them – .“ He broke off, Mycroft noted, when he realized the implications of what he was saying. “At any rate, I need to go in and sort this.”

Mycroft put a hand on Greg’s arm. He didn’t want Greg to go, didn’t want him to go into work, didn’t want him to leave the house. It wasn’t safe, Mycroft would miss him, and Greg needed to rest. He froze. He couldn’t remember ever having cared much about whether another person besides Sherlock was safe or needed rest. He also couldn’t remember having longed for another person’s company at any time in the last 20 years. This had a great deal to do with working with twits, certainly. Still, his pleasures has largely been solitary. Now, that was no longer enough. He wanted Greg’s company. 

He probably owed Greg an explanation about the last fortnight. Or did he? Had Greg perhaps regarded that as a fleeting attachment? What if Greg were the Slovenian Ambassador? How would he proceed? Since it probably wasn’t the done thing to tap one’s paramour’s phone or bribe his assistant, maybe that was a poor comparison. He had only met Sargent Donovan twice, but her service record suggested that any attempts at bribing her would lead to a loss of the sort of body parts that modern vascular surgeons find challenging to reattach. 

“Greg, I should have called you after, after I returned to work.”

“Look, Mycroft, I know you’ve been through a lot. You don’t need to explain.”

“I didn’t know whether this person was dangerous. Or who was behind this.” Or whether he was supposed to call. Or whether Greg was. Or whether Greg would want him to. Dear Lord, how did people without eidetic memories and first class degrees from Cambridge manage to navigate relationships?

 

“It’s all right. Look, we obviously have some kind of connection here. We can talk, like mates, or have sex, which was quite nice, by the way.”

Mycroft felt a surge of happiness. This was a far more promising sentiment from Greg than he had dared hope. 

 

“We are very different though, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to let me down easy.”

This was going pear-shaped rather quickly. Greg was continuing.

“The thing is, I know I’m not your usual type. My ancestors aren’t listed in the Domesday book, except perhaps as Serf #11, and I wasn’t put down for St. Paul’s at birth. You’d probably find my usual Saturday of a ploughman’s and a pint at my local watching Arsenal about as exciting as I would find the opera, or whatever you get up to…”

Greg was giving him an out. Mycroft recognized this, because he’d recommended that the Prime Minister do the same thing last month to the attache from Argentina. Of course the man had called their bluff, and they had had to deport him. These analogies to his work were seeming increasingly limited in relevance. He needed to stop this spiraling down, but how?

“I like you, Greg,” he blurted. Greg blinked. 

“That’s good. That’s – the feeling is mutual. The thing is, Mycroft, I also trust you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have come here last night. I would have found an emergency call box and given the “officer needs assistance” code, and then your posh coppers in this borough would have picked me up and given me one of their cashmere shock blankets. And I don’t really say that about many people, certainly not the people I date, who all seem to have some kind of weird agenda.”

“Try being in Whitehall; it’s the land of weird agendas. I take your point. I –I’m not very good at this. People, you know. Are you suggesting that we - ” 

“I don’t really know what I am suggesting, to be honest. I like spending time with you, but you’ve been through the wringer. That’s not usually a good time to form a relationship, if that’s even… what you do, or want.”

“I will defer to your greater experience on that. I suppose it isn’t what I do. It may be…what I want.”

“Good. Well, maybe the best thing to do is take it slowly. I promise I’ll try to keep my hands to myself. I think one thing is clear, though. We have some kind of mystery to solve, and I, I always seem to be saying this to a Holmes, I think we’re better off trying to solve this together.”

“Right. That should be our priority for now. It’s early, I can drop you at the Yard.”

“How about my place? I need to change clothes.”

“Of course.” Mycroft bit his lip.

“I think it should be safe enough.”

“Whatever you think best.” He was not convinced. His sister was ruthless, and those in her employ, for monetary or other reasons, would probably be the same.   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. Holidays to celebrate, relatives to visit, copious amounts of cookies and chocolates to consume. Somehow, I was able to soldier through.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg ran his hands through his hair. He felt tired and dehydrated, and he was frankly abusing the time honored tradition of sending the most junior PC on coffee and tea runs. The tradition also required that the senior officer stand said PC to a coffee each time, and young Roberts was starting to seem a bit jumpy. At least Greg felt reasonably warm. On the car ride in that morning, Mycroft had asked the driver to turn up the heat twice. In the end, when Greg was still trying to burrow into his seat, Mycroft had tossed his arm and his greatcoat over Greg. He hoped that he was on the road back to normal, since this semi invalid business was, frankly, a bit embarrassing. 

Well, embarrassing in a really good way. Last night, he had gotten far better than he had deserved, given that Mycroft had found him in his shower without so much as a by your leave, let alone an engraved invitation. He’d just sort of taken charge of Greg’s well-being. People did not generally do that, although his mum and Sal both tended to tut at him if he wasn’t sleeping enough, and once a month, his sister thrust half a Tupperware-sealed roast at him. Mostly, though, everyone sort of assumed that Greg would parcel out the tasks, collect the various outcomes, package them neatly, and present them to whomever needed them. At that point, he was allowed somewhere between 7 and 12 hours to go for a run, consume a lager and a plate of chicken, watch some Premier League highlights, and grab whatever sleep he could. “Everyone” included his family, his colleagues, and his mates on the Lambeth Rangers Emergency Services football team, who had a sort of learned helplessness in setting the rosters. 

Mycroft, though, hadn’t assumed that. Mycroft had looked after him. Greg had also, to be fair, looked after Mycroft. Those two facts seemed to speak quite a bit louder than their heartfelt conversations about where things stood, or even the quite nice sex (neither of them were really given to shouts of ecstasy. Some general moaning, sure.) A relationship needed something to stand on, and Greg was starting to think he might have something with Mycroft. He had to suppress a grin. 

The fact that his personal life was on the upswing made Greg feel calmer in a way, but it also amplified his sense of dread. The more he looked into these odd circumstances, the less certain any of their conclusions seemed. That uncertainty bothered Greg no end. He was convinced that years of that sort of uncertainty had turned his hair gray. He’d put in the request for a facial recognition search on the man with the dog. It would be days before he could expect the results. He even found himself, God help him, going through the newsletter of the Shih Tzu Club of the UK. No luck there, and if people had that sort of time on their hands, shouldn’t they be volunteering with the elderly or with troubled youth? 

 

Sal was working with a police artist on a sketch of the doctor, but with the sleet and the man’s glasses, they weren’t sure they could come up with something adequately detailed. Greg had gotten access for them to the database of doctors who had been struck off the NHS lists, but Sal couldn’t find a match among the photo ID shots. Those ID shots, though, were even worse than the usual lot. The fundamental problem with all of their databases, Greg mused, is that no one looked like their IDs. Thank God for that. If he thought that he really looked like the photo on his warrant card, he’d retire, and if he ever grew to look like his passport photo, he’d redo his will. Those NHS IDs had expiration dates, but no one ever checked those, so there could be a roaring trade in the IDs themselves. 

Was there any connection between the two men? Did they, in turn, have any connection to Eurus Holmes? The details he had learned about Eurus from Mycroft and from a pub night with John were sparse, but they clearly pointed to a set of questions he would really have to broach with Mycroft. He was not looking forward to that. 

His warrant card was another matter entirely. Sherlock had absconded with it three times over the years; he’d given it back twice, and Greg had had to replace that third one. Sherlock swore the card was in the flat somewhere, presumably blown to bits now. Had Eurus somehow gained access to it? He checked his pockets for the fourth time that day. The current card was there. The one the man had given to Sal had been bagged and tagged and was being examined in the counterfeiting lab now. 

If he started with Sherlock, maybe that would be less he’d have to ask Mycroft later. Greg put on an extra jumper before stepping out into the cold again. He’d take the Tube. The streets looked a bit dodgy still, what with last night’s weather.

John and Sherlock were staying in St. John’s Wood, during the repair phase at 221 Baker St. Mrs. Hudson was staying down the road, subsidized by Mycroft, Greg knew. 

“The sort of London hotel that her insurance company will provide would not necessarily be preferable to the burnt pile of rubble at 221,” he had said.

John and Sherlock’s new local café was DECIDEDLY more upscale than Speedy’s, and John was finding that taxing. While standing in line for organic tea hand-picked by nuns, Sherlock had broken to no fewer than 3 wives of American CEOs that their husbands were 1) unfaithful, 2) embezzling, and 3) embezzling to subsidize the unfaithfulness. John was prepared to stare death in the face for Sherlock, but public scenes involving women scorned? Well, like most British men, he’d prefer to lose at least a toe rather than be a party to that sort of display. The sooner the repairs were finished, the better.

Greg pressed the buzzer for their temporary flat. 

Lestrade,” he said into the intercom. There was a sound of scrambling, a string of curses, and the buzzer sounded.

Greg walked up one flight. The hallway was non-descript, but was very clean and modern. He pushed open the door, which was ajar. Inside, what had obviously started as one of those upscale furnished flats catering to businessmen on one month assignments was now in complete disarray. Sofa cushions were piled on the floor in one corner, and dolls were seated on them in various aggressive poses that made them look like an all-female Special Forces Brigade. At least 8 scientific journals were strewn on the table with three other piles of books on the floor. Four cardboard boxes of what looked like car door locks were piled against the bookshelves. Sherlock, holding Rosie, stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room with his back to Lestrade. Greg stepped behind him to find him deep in conversation with Bill Wiggins, who was holding a pink bowl covered with characters from the Disney film “Frozen”.

“Shez, mate, it’s simple biochemistry, innit? She needs to eat both the rice and the tofu for complete protein.”

“She does not care for the rice,” said Sherlock with finality. He turned. 

“Oh, it really is you, Greg.” 

Greg would never get used to that. It was all he could do to stop himself from putting on his best musical hall hero voice and shouting, 

“Who are you, and what have you done with the real Sherlock?” Sherlock looked at him with that penetrating gaze.

“I see you’re recovering from hypothermia, probably after getting caught in last night’s sleet. I’m surprised you’ve bounced back so quickly. You probably had help,” he smirked. “Mycroft doesn’t heat the house well, but he doesn’t stint on bedding.” 

Greg decided that silence was the best strategy. He also deliberately wasn’t looking at Bill’s pockets, lest he see something that might require immediate arrest.

“Does he get his bedding from the purveyors to the royal family?” John had just come through the door, bearing bags both medical and Tesco.

“Those Spartans? You’ve heard about the hellhole of a boarding school where they sent their own children. No, Amal was in town on a case last year, so he asked her for a recommendation. Apparently, George is particular.” Sherlock handed Rosie over to John, who handed his Tesco bag (but not the medical one) to Bill. 

Greg considered the fact that dating Mycroft might mean socializing with the Clooneys, but then he remembered that Mycroft didn’t really do socializing, and he felt better at once. 

“So what brings you here, Greg?” asked John.

“It’s about that lost warrant card.”

“That is so 2015,” said Sherlock with a flounce of his dressing gown.

“It’s just that I think it’s turned up, to do with a case.”

“Someone not you presented an ID with a picture of you? A decidedly limited strategy, and frankly, about a four.” Bill came out of the kitchen and handed three separate boxes of dental floss to Sherlock. “Ahh, excellent. If anyone needs me, I shall be burning these.” Sherlock headed into the first bedroom door.

“For God’s sake, do not use one of my band t-shirts to mop up the ashes again,” John shouted after him. “And what chapter is she on?”

“Three. ‘More Paddington’.” Sherlock slammed the door shut. 

Greg decided to ignore the implications of John’s clothes being stored in Sherlock’s room. If he asked questions, he might have to answer some himself. Bill turned to John and handed him the pink bowl.

“He won’t even offer her the rice.”

“If he admits that she should eat it, he’ll have to eat it too,” said John.

“The research is pretty clear that offering children foods multiple times is the path to familiarizing them, innit?” said Bill. He disappeared into the kitchen with a righteous wave of his hand. 

“Bill comes over often, does he?”

“Sherlock says he’s doing a work experience in child minding with us. He figures if Bill has a marketable skill, he will be less likely to relapse.”

“So…you’re going to give him a reference as a child minder?” 

John shrugged.

“When he reads Peppa Pig, he can do all of the voices. Although, Grandpa Pig always sounds like Spike Milligan. Greg, has the warrant card issue caused you any problems? We can have Sherlock say - ”

“No, not really problems. Complications maybe.” Greg would have to be subtle here. He sat down and chatted with John about the Premier League, their new local pub, and nursery for Rosie (“Sherlock has been hearing about home-schooling from the American mums. We need to leave this neighborhood.”)

“So, do you feel like things are back to normal? It’s only been a few weeks.” 

“We’ve never really been normal, have we?” John said with a wry smile. “At any rate, the fact that we need to make things pleasant for Rosie has meant that we just have to get on with it, which is a good thing. I’m taking some locum shifts at various clinics. Sherlock’s been a help.” John looked at his shoes. “I like to think I’m helping him, too, but only he can answer that.” 

“You don’t feel like talking to anyone?” John stared at him.

“I think I’ve had enough of therapists for one lifetime, thank you.”

“Oh, sorry, mate, I forgot. She was disguised as – was that in your therapist’s office?”

“Yes, and she appeared on my local bus route too. I take the Tube these days.”

Greg asked deftly,

“Was she ever at 221B?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t here, but she came to see Sherlock when she was disguised as Culverton’s daughter, when she drugged him.”

Crap. Circumstantial, and they might not know for sure, but she had had the opportunity to take the card.

Greg stayed and read Rosie a chapter of Paddington. He could never get Mr. Gruber’s voice right. He also asked Bill about the street value of an NHS ID. He was informed that the expiry dates made them less desirable as contraband, not that Bill knew this firsthand, mind. 

It was gone 4 when he returned to the Yard. John hadn’t suspected anything, but if he told Sherlock the details of their conversation, he suspected that Sherlock would put it together. Greg wanted more facts before Sherlock got involved. 

At 5, he decided that he was too exhausted to look at more computer screens. There was no word on his search requests, so he decided to call it a day. When he stepped outside, Mycroft’s car was waiting for him. The door opened, and an impeccably dressed senior civil servant emerged. 

“I reasoned that you would insist on working a full day, but would be too exhausted to continue much farther, and prudence would send you home at a reasonable hour. Might I offer you a lift?”

“We had a cat named Prudence,” said Greg, yawning as he slid into the back seat. “Just to my place, mind. I am in a weakened state, Mr. Holmes, and a gentleman wouldn’t take advantage of me.”

“A gentleman certainly would not. You are, however, dealing with me, Detective Inspector.” 

The drive to Greg’s was short. Mycroft walked him up to his flat. 

“This is…quite nice,” said Mycroft, as he barked his shin on one of two dining chairs.

Greg laughed.

“It is a very nice broom closet, and quite possibly the most convenient place I’ve ever lived. I can’t however, take up hobbies that involve collecting things, sports equipment other than shorts, or building scale models of things.”

“That reassures me that you will go straight to sleep, as there is room to do little else.”

“Oh, I don’t know Mr. Holmes, I can think of one or two activities that I can always find room for. However, I am keeping my hands to myself these days.”

He kissed Mycroft, and promptly yawned.

“I will refrain from being offended by that due to your exhaustion.” 

“Let’s go with that.” 

Greg sat heavily on the bed. The last thing he heard as he drifted off was Mycroft letting himself out, and deadbolting the door after himself. How had he done that? Maybe a key? Magnets….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't meant to put quite so much John and Sherlock in, but they do seem to write themselves.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft put his lockpick back in his pocket, musing that it wasn’t the first time he had used it for the opposite of its original purpose. With all of these odd characters roaming about, the thought of leaving Greg behind an unlocked door was unthinkable. The building itself was updated, with magnetic locks, but Greg’s salary didn’t run to a flat in a building with concierge service. He himself had added surveillance for the building, but he hardly knew what to tell his people. Mow down anyone with a medical license? Beware of rogue lapdogs?

On his journey back home, he felt a spasm of melancholy. His sister was still on his mind, and the one person who could comfort him was growing farther away by the minute. Greg had perhaps been right. Could he honestly form a relationship with Greg right now that wasn’t a dependence?

He deposited his umbrella in its stand in the front hallway, rechecked the security system seven times, and then went upstairs to bed. He had not added surveillance for himself. Besides the fact that questions might be asked later, there was the fact that it would seem like giving in. Once, while buttoning his pajamas, he had stopped to listen for suspicious noises. All he could hear was the hum of the central heating, such as it was, and the distant whine of a motorcycle. If he slept that night next to the dressing gown he had loaned Greg, no one need know.

The next afternoon, he went to Scotland Yard bearing a tray with two coffees. Greg would have questions. How could he not? Mycroft would have to answer them. He knew which lino-covered hallways to follow, and he arrived at Greg’s office, tapping his umbrella on the open door. Greg had a pile of files, a wrinkled copy of what looked like a deposition, and a sheet of yellow notepaper on which he had written questions. He looked up at Mycroft and smiled, but for how much longer, Mycroft wondered.

“I know you probably have questions.”

“I knew you’d know that, although I can’t work out how you arrived at your deductions at the exact moment I am ready to speak to you.” 

“Years of practice, although most of our elected officials are really quite a bit more predictable than you, Greg. I don’t know if I can answer all of the questions you have. They might be my questions too.”

Greg got up and closed the door. He looked at Mycroft. 

“I don’t want to interrogate you. Just whatever you can tell me, okay?” he said. Greg put his sheet of questions in front of him. “Right, then. The thing that puzzles me is how your sister did it. I’ve read the Sherrinford staff testimony,” he pointed to the wrinkled deposition. “I squirreled away copies of some of the most puzzling bits, which I had to hide from your lot when they came to pick up all of the case files.” Here, Greg paused. “So, Eurus did a raft of things that she wasn’t meant to be able to do. Some of them, I can work out. She must have lured the Garridebs to the island, for instance. The staff admit tying them up for her, but that’s all they’ll cop to, but she managed to rig the weaponry and traps herself.” 

Mycroft shuddered visibly. Greg put a hand on his arm almost absently and rubbed Mycroft’s elbow as chewed on the end of his pen. He continued, 

“What’s really impossible to work out is the amount of time she spent off of the island. Did she come and go as she pleased?”

“Apparently, with the warden so compromised.” 

“But how did she do that? I don’t think it was the Sherrinford staff. They used official government boats, with all passengers present and accounted for. At any rate, they most of them worked four 10 hour shifts, and then had three days off. They spent their weekdays on the island, in a rather nice employee barracks, I might add, only leaving when their days off came up.”

“Those perks were necessary to attract enough applicants to the job.” 

“I can certainly imagine. But she could hardly count on them for regular transport, could she? John was seeing the therapist three times a week at one point.”

“Indeed. I share your opinion that she had some alternative source of transport.”

“Then there was the money: rent on that apartment where she took Sherlock, the disguises, the transport, not just off the island, but to London, bus fare, mobile service, the list goes on…”

“Yes, all true. I can assure you that she did not, at any time, access the family trust, or any of our accounts. I manage them all, so I am quite certain. I had assumed that the staff – “

“That’s just it, though. I don’t think they did. The CPS left a note in the master file that said that they had all been vetted for unusual expenditure patterns, and they all denied funding her.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. This was a new development. Good Lord, two days he had been off the job, two days, and yet he had missed this vital thread. More importantly, so had the Home Office. The various possibilities spun in his head. But clearly, Greg had more.

“She drugged Sherlock, right? So a source of drugs. And she gave him a gun and had a spare to point at John. What’s more is that Sherlock nicked my warrant card and had it lying around in his flat somewhere. According to John, Eurus was there, in 221B. She could have stolen the stolen property.” 

Mycroft sighed. Greg looked quickly behind him, and then reached out and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. 

“I don’t want to add to your concerns, Mycroft. Thing is, I know you must have wondered all of the same things.”

“I did wonder about the transport and the drugs. The drugs I had assumed were purchased somewhere, or perhaps were given to her by the Sherrinford medical staff. Eurus had a regular psychiatrist who had seen her for many years, but the more routine medical needs of the prison were seen to by rotating NHS staff. I had assumed whoever it was had rotated off, that it was an isolated incident. But - ”

“You didn’t know about the money.”

“Just so. That sheds a whole new light on things. The money could have been used to pay for the transport, but whoever did it would had to have known they were acting illegally. I haven’t really been in a position to ask about it. The reason I didn’t know about the funding issue is that I don’t access Eurus’ files anymore. I haven’t felt it appropriate, and I doubt I’d be given access if I did ask. Her case has been turned over to others.” Mycroft paused. “Greg, Moriarty had a network that it took Sherlock two years to wipe out. My sister was more isolated, but more brilliant than Moriarty. Could she have done the same?”

Greg slumped back in his chair. He looked out the window. 

“Well, so far, what we have are a lot of unanswered questions.” He turned back to Mycroft. “But Mycroft, if she did, we have to be the ones to look into this. If they sent a bloke after me, if someone is walking a suspicious lapdog on your street, we’re already involved. But more importantly, Mycroft, you’re probably the only one who can figure it out. “

Mycroft didn’t like dealing with emotions – so inexact. Now he was dealing with several at once, and his head was about to explode: shame (would he ever stop feeling it over his sister), fear for himself and Greg and Sherlock and John and little Rosamund, pride that Greg had put all of this together, and a positively teenaged giddiness that Greg had said “we”. Mycroft swallowed. He hadn’t gotten where he was by refusing to face facts.

“Very well, then. Could I get copies of these documents.” Once again, Greg was one step ahead of him, and handed him copies ready to go. Mycroft opened his briefcase to put them in. Greg saw the documents on top and reached to take them out. 

“The employment records of the doctor and nurse who treated you in Cardiff that night. Were you thinking of filing a complaint?”

“Not as such, but I felt that I couldn’t be the first patient with whom they had been so officious.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Greg gave whomever it was permission to come in. It was Sally Donovan. She leaned into the doorway.

“Boss, Records says you’ve got some results on a photo search you asked for, they want to know…wait did you find that bloke off of my sketch, or is he on the list of dodgy docs? That was certainly quick work.” Sally stepped in and took from Greg’s hands the photo of the doctor that had treated Mycroft in Cardiff.

“Sergeant, do you mean to say that this was the man who approached you in Kew to say that Detective Inspector Lestrade had been hurt?”

“Well, yeah, isn’t that why you have his dossier?” To his relief, Sgt. Donovan did not question either his presence or his involvement in their case.

“Perhaps we can just say he is known to the services.” Mycroft maintained his calm exterior, but his heart sank. That the doctor worked at the closest NHS facility to his sister could not be a coincidence. Greg, he noticed, did not feel the need to hide his emotion quite so fully.

“Bloody hell!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

Greg looked at Mycroft. The doctor closest to Sherrinford. This was Eurus, for sure. Now what, he wondered. He decided to stall a bit. He turned back to Sally. 

“Well, that’s a positive i.d.”

“Right, but this name, Craig Evans. That wasn’t on the i.d. he showed me. It was Alex something” 

“I think you and I need to pay this fellow a visit. How’s your Welsh, Sal?”

“Abysmal, sir.”

“Well that’s two of us. Get us a panda with actual petrol in it. By the way, what did Records say about my facial recognition search?”

“They just wanted to know if you wanted a hard copy of the results or just a digital version.”

“I’ll call them. Was it Cranston?” She nodded, and again at Mycroft, on her way out. Lestrade picked up the phone on his desk.

“Brian? That was quicker than I’d expected. Can you just email me the results? Ta.” Greg sat and turned to his screen. He looked up at Mycroft. “I’m not ignoring you, love. I just thought we’d get all of the news at once.” Mycroft still looked a bit forlorn. Greg stalled more. He pulled Myroft around behind his chair. “Have a look then.” He clicked at the attachment on his screen. “Well this is odd. The man with the shih-tzu. It’s him. There’s his driving license plain as day. Geoffrey Wilson. He isn’t in the database because he’s got a criminal record, though. He runs a catering service, and they supply the food for the canteens at several police stations and four registry offices in Greater Manchester.” They apparently also supply some large hotels – these are some big names, respectable corporate citizens, the lot of them. Places like that don’t usually get mixed up with businesses that are dodgy, well not unless there’s at least one other firm acting as a buffer. “ 

“Intriguing.” Greg could see the wheels turning in Mycroft’s head. He had a few ideas, but clearly wasn’t yet ready to share. Alright, then. 

“Look, I’ve got to go see this doc. He deliberately disrupted a police investigation. That’s serious. I’ll be able to get something out of him. I’ll try to keep you out of it as long as I can.” Here he paused. “Can you handle the dog lover, then? It may look better if your lot questions the fellow with the police contacts.”+

 

“Agreed.” Mycroft was looking at bit better. He had a mission, now. With a quick glance at the door. He squeezed Mycroft’s arm again. 

“We’ll be late – Cardiff and back.” 

“I have a few appointments of my own. Please call, whatever the time.”

“I will.”

Greg wished he could put his arms round Mycroft, reassure him that this was survivable, distract him with some quick sex on the sofa. Not really safe for work, as his nephew would say.

Mycroft swept out, umbrella and files in hand.

Greg went down to the garage and found Sally.

“You got the one with the working heater?”

“Only the best for you, Boss. I also have two bags of prawn crisps.”

“Ah, picnic lunch.”

They crawled out of London, and then opened the throttle a bit. Donovan drove. 

“Sal?”

“Yeah.” 

“I should warn you. I have a bit of history with this doc.”

“I should have known you’d gone down another path to get him that quickly.” She paused, “Does it have anything to do with…Holmes? His brother was in your office and –“

Greg broke in.

“Nothing is really clear.”

“In other words, you’re not sharing.” 

Greg hesitated. Sal was a good, thorough officer. Her bias against Sherlock had muted substantially since Sherlock’s redemption and return, but she still perceived him as insane. He deiced to change the subject.

“Sal, you know, your last interaction with this bloke was pretty positive, yeah?”

“Yeah. Treated him like a helpful Samaritan, so I thought.”

“So maybe we should do our good cop, bad cop, but this time, you’re the good cop.”

Donovan grinned

“A girl cannot expect to get the attention of the BAFTA committee if she doesn’t stretch to new roles.”

Lestrade laughed. They listened in companionable silence to the Kinks and the Beat. Greg radioed the local nick to see if they could get a courtesy room. They finally pulled into the Cardiff University Hospital around 5 pm. 

“Shift change,” said Greg. “Perfect timing.” Greg made sure to march into the hospital lobby as if he owned it. The nurse he had seen with Mycroft several weeks earlier was at the front desk. She took one look at Greg, turned around, and headed down the hallway. 

“Dr. Craig Evans?” Greg asked the woman at the desk. She pointed at an office labeled “Break Room.” Greg strode in without knocking, followed by Donovan. He was delighted to see that there were four other doctors seated about on worn, floral patterned chairs holding cups of tea and coffee. “Dr. Evans? We’ve come all the way from Scotland Yard. Surprised to see us again, then?” He walked over to the doctor and whispered in his ear. “We’ve got you dead to rights, mate. Interfering with a police investigation, endangering an officer, false NHS i.d. I can arrest you here on any number of charges, and I can do so in front of your colleagues, or you can come quietly down to the local station with us. Up to you.”

Evans smirked. Lestrade eyed him. He’d had the man pegged as a narcissist that first night when the bloke had treated Mycroft, but he’d backed down quickly enough with a threat of adverse publicity. He didn’t seem to be doing that now. He really thought he could beat this. Why, though? Greg leaned in again. “Thought you were bright enough to take this break, Doc. Right, then, the hard way it is. Craig Evans, I’m ar—“

Evans jumped in. 

“I don’t know what you think I’ve done, or what evidence you have, but let me assure you, when my solicitor gets through with you, you’ll end up directing traffic in Blackpool.”

Lestrade held out his hand. Sal handed him the cuffs. He snapped the on Evans.

“You don’t get to tell the police not to arrest you, Evans. As I was saying, Craig Evans, you are under arrest for interfering with an investigation, endangering an officer, lying to the police, possession of stolen property, and displaying a false identification.” 

The other doctors in the room gaped. It didn’t appear, to Greg, though, that they were concerned about Evans. So, not well-liked, then. He could have guessed that.

“Boss, you know that there might be explanations for all of this. It’s just that the one thing I can’t reconcile, is why Dr. Evans here showed me an i.d. with the name of first name Alex.”

A fellow on Sally’s left jumped out of his second hand chair.

“I’m Alex Albertson, and my i.d. card went missing last week. Cost me 80 quid to replace it, and now you’re using it to commit crimes? What’s the deal here, Evans?” Not “Craig”, then. Interesting.

“An oversight,” said Evans, tightly.

“I expect that’ll be it,” said Sally lightly. She turned to the other doctor. “Did you make a statement to the local police about your i.d., Dr. Albertson?”

“Security demanded it, but the bloke, I mean, officer, kindly came here.”  
How had she guessed that the doctor whose i.d. Evans had stolen was in the room? And all the while throwing Evans bones. As far as Greg was concerned, the BAFTA was hers.

The led Evans out to the panda. Greg punched in the GPS for the Cardiff Main Police Station. A bit of theater would go a long way here, and Greg intended to set an elaborate stage. 

“You really thought we wouldn’t catch on to you?” Greg said into his rearview mirror. Evans was silent.

“Come on now, Boss, this could all be a set of misunderstandings.” Greg snorted. 

“No. He thought we’d never find him. He thinks he’s cleverer than a couple of coppers.”

“Well, doctors do tend to have top marks in exam results.” Greg glanced in his mirror. The doc was smirking again. Couldn’t ignore the fawning. Probably believed it was sincere, since he couldn’t imagine anyone not admiring him. Let’s fuck with that belief a bit, shall we?

“Please. They spend years in school drinking, funded by our taxes, when decent people are out working. Then a few weeks before their exams, they memorize a few pages of dirty pictures, and suddenly they fancy themselves educated and superior to those of who have real jobs.” 

Sally threw Evans an apologetic look. Evans addressed Greg.

“I am sure, Officer, that when you need a doctor, you are only too happy we spent time memorizing those ‘dirty pictures.’”

“Me? I don’t go to doctors. Staying out of those pestilent surgeries is the best way to stay healthy, innit Evans?”

“That’s Dr. Evans.”

“That’s Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

They pulled up to Cardiff’s largest police station. They parked in front, and Greg made sure to lead Evans theatrically up the front steps. They stopped at the desk. Greg flashed his warrant card. ”Lestrade, Scotland Yard.” The desk sergeant had been typing at about 100 words a minute. She looked up.

“Yes, Detective Inspector. We have a room, number 4, for you and, ah, Evans. Will he need processing?”

“No,” piped up Donovan. 

Evans looked at the sergeant. 

“Gall bladder, was it? 2009?” The sergeant pressed her lips together tightly.

“We do have doctor patient confidentiality laws in this country, Doctor,” she said coldly. Lestrade noted this with interest. Evans was trying to play his home court advantage. Coppers weren’t the healthiest lot, and he was on staff at the largest hospital in town. He might have ten ex-patients here just on this duty shift. Yet, he wasn’t able to marshal them in any way. Huh. At least he hadn’t yet asked for his solicitor.

They found room number 4 at the end of a deserted corridor. Evans began to look a bit nervous at the complete absence of other humans who might witness any issues. They entered together, and Greg removed Evans’ handcuffs. Sally started the tape, and sat across from Evans. 

“Interview of Craig Evans. 6 pm, February 9th. Present are Sgt. Sally Donovan and DI Greg Lestrade. Alright, formalities out of the way. Now Sgt. Donovan, have you seen Evans here before.”

“Yes, he approached my squad car in Kew Gardens on the evening of February 7th.”

“Go on then.” 

“He told me that you DI Lestrade, had been injured, and he showed me your warrant card and the NHS i.d. of Alex Albertson.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. How would we explain this, then, Evans?” The Jaded Smartass was not Greg’s usual M.O. Usually, he was the kindly older brother (“If you tell someone it will be easier.”), or the admiring younger brother, (“How did you, how could anyone manage all of this, then?”). In police work, Middle Child Syndrome could be leveraged to advantage. Jaded Smartass was sitting well right now, though. He might have to bring this avatar out more often.

“Dr. Evans,” the same man said through clenched teeth. Then he smiled. “I had been led to believe that a police officer was injured.”

“Led to believe? By whom?” 

“A man.” 

“What sort of man?” Evans regarded his nails, nonchalantly.

“It was hard to tell. Sleeting, you know.”

“So this man, we’ll call him Bunbury, told you that I had been injured?” Evans looked up at this. “A lot of people do that play in school. A good friend of mine was Lady Bracknell. Anyway, why don’t you describe the sequence of events, from the beginning.’’

“Well, the fellow beckoned to me...”

“Let’s start with why you were in Kew at 10 pm during a sleetstorm.”

“I was taking a walk.” 

Greg looked at Sally. 

“How dumb does he think an English jury is?”

“Boss, just hear him out.”

“Alright then. You were out walking in a sleetstorm in a large deserted National Heritage sight in a major city, in which you do not live, after dark. You saw a stranger beckon to you, and you of course went over?”

“Of course,” said Evans. “I must always be on the lookout to aid citizens in need. Hippocratic Oath, you know. That’s the oath doctors take – “

“After the stranger beckoned to you?”

“I went over to him. He told me that a police officer had been hurt. He handed me a warrant card. I, of course, assumed that the warrant card was for the officer he meant. I walked about a bit, couldn’t find an officer. Then I saw Sergeant Donovan and her colleague, and I thought perhaps they would be better positioned to assist the officer.” Sergeant Donovan and her colleague. Clearly, he had decided to stay in Sal’s good books

“The officer that might need assistance? I thought you were looking for citizens in need.”

“Well, at the point, I had no idea where the supposed officer was.”

“Interesting that you had met the ‘supposed officer’ the week before.”

“A mere coincidence, I assure you.”

“Alright,” said Sally. “If we could just get a few details. What time would you say the man approached you?”

“About 9:00 pm.” 

“And you made contact with PC Roberts and myself at 10:25 pm. What were you doing in the meantime?” Evans hesitated, then plunged ahead.

“I was looking for the officer.”

“And that would have been for…85 minutes?”

“Y-yes.” Greg tried not to smile. Sal was nailing Evans down to a timeline here. He was clearly making half of this up. They’d question him again, and he’d get something, or several somethings, wrong. 

“And you weren’t wearing a hat or scarf or gloves. Searching must have been quite chilly in all of that sleet.”

“Yes, it was.”

“And the bloke who gave you DI Lestrade’s stolen warrant card. Where did he get off to?”

“He…went south, toward the main entrance to the park.”

“That is odd, because PC Roberts and I were close to the entrance, and we didn’t see anyone. Did you, DI Lestrade?

“As it happens, I didn’t.”

Now then,” Sally continued. “You saw our car and then?”

“Well, I thought to enlist your help.”

“Right, and why did you show me Dr. Albertson’s id?” 

“Well I found it on the hospital grounds last week, and had forgotten to return it to him. I must have mixed it up with mine.”

“Right then. That’s all in order. You know, I just have a question about that. Why did you give your name as Alex?”

“I –I did no such thing.” 

“You did, actually. It’s in my case notes, and PC Roberts also remarked on it at the time. It’s in his report as well.” Sally looked up and smiled expectantly. Excellent. Evans was on the back foot. Greg dived back into the conversation.

“So, how many times did you treat Eurus Holmes? The case notes aren’t entirely clear. At least twice.”

Sal was looking at him intently. She didn’t know where he was going with this line of questioning, and she didn’t want to make a misstep. She’d seen Eurus that night, but little info had been released to the rank and file: a special prisoner in a special prison. He had assumed some of them had hear the name Holmes from the guards they’d replaced.

Evans looked taken aback. Why, he didn’t know. Evans had seen him with Eurus’ brother that night, and surely, the fact that Evans had treated Eurus would be in her files. He likely just wasn’t ready to answer questions about her yet. Best to push then. 

“You’re the closest hospital. Naturally, thinking yourself the best doctor there, you pushed to the front of the line to treat the special prisoner.” 

Evans couldn’t resist preening here.

“The hospital administration naturally out me forward. No need for any pushing on my part.”

“You missed the diagnosis of severe mental illness and psychopathy, didn’t you though? Or maybe you thought you could control her. Didn’t though, did you? She had you jumping through hoops to get her opioid drugs illegally on more than one occasion.”

Evans lips tightened.

“When did she give you my warrant card?” Evans looked nonplussed here. This was the link he didn’t know about. 

“I told you, that was a man who -”

“My stolen warrant card was traced to her, so let’s skip more lying to the police. This is that bit we mentioned earlier about harming your defense.”

Evans closed his mouth.

“You will need to direct all further questions to my solicitor.”

Bulls-eye. That was it for today then. Greg had known they were living on borrowed time. Evans had committed to quite a lot, though. 

“Right, so it appears that you have, at the very least stolen an i.d. and given a false statement to officers.”

“Nonsense!”

“We’ll see what Crown Prosecution has to say about that. Alright off we go to the car. Need to visit the bog? Long drive.”

“The car?”

“Well, you committee the crime in London, and this is the Yard’s case now. You’ll be processed back in London.”

“My solicitor – “

“You have the right to call after processing.” Evans turned two shades redder.

 

Greg had expected the long ride back to be unpleasant, but it was rather uneventful. Greg’s taste in music clearly annoyed the doctor, a fact which gave Greg an armload of the sort of juvenile, petty pleasure in which he ordinarily didn’t indulge.

About halfway back, Sal turned to him and said,

“I sort of like bitchy Lestrade. Just a hint of Life on Mars.” Greg smiled.

“Oi. I actually remember those days, or something just after them. Reminds me. One more seed of doubt to plant. Fake oops, there, Sal.”

“Right, right.” Donovan leaned over to pretend to fiddle with the radio, but she actually hit the switch for the intercom between the safety glass-screened back seat of the police car and the front. Greg launched in.

“so I got the preliminary report on Geoffrey Wilson. Up to his eyeballs. I think he’s going to talk.” He flicked his gaze around the series of mirrors in the front seat of the car. Evans was visible from several angles. Geoffrey Wilson’s name seemed to provoke no reaction. Odd that. Greg nodded to Sally. She changed the music again, and switched the intercom off. She then gave him a stern look.

“I’ll fill in the blanks for you tomorrow, promise. Excellent work, back there, Sal. I’d give you a rise out of me own pocket if I could.”

“I’ll pass on being paid in crisps and expired dry cleaning receipts, thanks, Boss.”

They arrived in London well after midnight. Evans was too exhausted to sputter much, and they handed him to the desk sergeant for processing. They would pay for this in the a.m. They certainly had enough for charges to be brought, but not nearly enough for remand, so Evans would be bailed, and then what? Evans’ brief would be the best money could buy, but only the best in Cardiff. Greg expected that would work to their advantage.

Arriving at his flat at 1:30 am, Greg hesitated, but texted Mycroft.

\----Evans in lockup in London. We’ll be able to charge him, but he’ll get bail. 

A few moments later, his phone rang.

“Greg?”

“Good to hear your voice, Sunshine.”

“Good lord, even Mummy never called me that. “

“Less than surprising. You got my text. And Evans admitted to treating Eurus, before demanding his brief.”

“Ah. Well, one can use that. I can have a word about having him into ours for an extra session of ‘inquiries’ after Scotland Yard releases him, but that will probably only buy 24 more hours.”

“The question in my mind is, will he bolt?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft hesitated. “We can take measures. I suspect that mentioning my sister’s name…”

“Mycroft?”

“Sorry, losing my train of thought.”

“You sound as knackered as I feel.”

“Indeed. In addition to my usual appointments, I have some rather interesting information on Geoffrey Wilson. Gathering that information, well it was rather more legwork than I have done in some time.”

“Right. We’ll talk in the morning. Get some sleep, then.”

“I should admonish you to do the same.”

“No worries on that score.” Greg took a breath. He hoped this wasn’t too much pressure. “I have missed you, these last couple of days.” Mycroft cleared his throat.

“The feeling is quite mutual.”

“Goodnight, Love.”

“Goodnight.”

Greg brushed his teeth and changed into a t-shirt and cotton pajama trousers. He had taught himself, after years of trying to sleep after the adrenaline rush of tracking a suspect, to quiet his mind enough to sleep by thinking of the nicest places he had been. Ordinarily, he thought back to a holiday in Italy, but now, he found his mind drifting back to the two nights he had spent curled up in bed with Mycroft, chest to chest, surrounded by a warm duvet. Very, very warm…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating. So many things intervene: work, life, skiing Norwegians, Excultus


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's day is as long as Greg's.

Chapter 10

Just talking to Greg had been an exhausting series of forced revelations about his sister. What had come after that though, had been even farther from Mycroft’s usual comfort zone .

His first appointment after leaving Greg’s office was long overdue. Shireen Madurai had come highly recommended, after some discreet inquiries of a recently bereaved colleague and one who had had some marital difficulties. She was approved by the services, so going to see her wouldn’t raise eyebrows officially. Unofficially, he was Mycroft Holmes, and it was suspected that any session Antarctica might have with someone like Shireen would be short, as his colleagues couldn’t imagine that he had much in the way of emotions to uncover. 

He was ushered into her office promptly. 

“Mr. Holmes. I’ve read your file.”

Mycroft had, of course, also read hers. Doubtless she knew this. He had made this appointment because she was efficient, as was her chosen therapeutic specialty. (The post graduate degree from University College hadn’t hurt, either.) So far, Mycroft was not disappointed. “I’ll get to the point. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, one in which a family member abused your trust and threatened your life, as well as that of your brother. You were in charge of that family member’s care, which may not have been the best exercise of judgment on your part or that of the services. You’re feeling fear, guilt, and shame. You need to know how to live with that.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“I can help with that. I must stress, though, Mr. Holmes, that I can only help you if you do the work. It is encouraging that you have made this appointment yourself. I’ll be frank here, I don’t see many of you public school types born before 1980 or so. Too busy starching your upper lips. When it gets to be too much, your sort tend to take a mistress, buy a motorcycle, or drink, among other things. Stepping across that threshold was at least a third of the battle.”

Well, she did get to the point, didn’t she? 

“Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what happened between you and your sister.”

So Mycroft told her. He tried not to leave anything out, especially his own culpability. When he got to the part where he had tried to get Sherlock to shoot him, she stopped taking notes.

“It was basically your worst nightmare, multiplied exponentially, in other words,” she said. Mycroft nodded. “Mr. Holmes, at the beginning of my studentship, I treated people who had witnessed the genocide in Rwanda. I have treated people who have survived ISIS. Your trauma is a significant violation of decency and social norms. It may seem like you will never feel normal again. The people who saw those atrocities, many were able to lead normal lives again. The horror was with them, but the brain has enormous healing potential, and many people are able to come through those experiences without being destroyed by them.”

“Many?”

“We are not miracle workers, Mr. Holmes. There are some people who can’t move beyond some trauma. I don’t, though, have any indication thus far that you are one of those people. Can I just briefly discuss your support system? You have your brother, and it says here that your parents are still living, is that correct?”

“They are all living, yes.”

“Perhaps…not so much a support system.”

“I rather doubt anyone has ever applied that adjective to my parents. As for my brother, he is rather particular about where he lends his support.”

“I can imagine that this incident has rather strained things.”

“ ‘Things’ have always been strained between my brother and myself.” She scribbled some notes. Mycroft sighed. At that point, he began to fear that this whole idea was as much a waste of time as he had anticipated. The pathology of his family would become a central focus, and the same tired diagnoses would be trotted out. His nightmares would continue. He should have known better than to trust a field of science that relied on human reactions. Shireen startled Mycroft back into the present.

“How about any other relatives, friends?”

“Well…there is Greg.”

“Greg?”

“A friend.” Shireen began writing a great deal more than the words “Greg, a friend.”

“Is Greg aware of your situation?”

“Ye-es.” 

“So, is he a significant source of support, then?”

“I would say so.” Although for how long, Mycroft preferred not to hazard a guess. Shireen had written a great deal more. Mycroft had sighed again.

“I think we’ll begin with two exercises in the cognitive behavioral therapy repertoire. The first is breaking the cycle of negative thinking. You recall the case of John Hinckley, who shot the American president Ronald Reagan.”

“Vividly, I was in school at the time.”

“You recall his motivation.”

“He wished to impress an actress, whom he had never met.”

“Now, would you say that this shooting was the fault of the actress?”

“No. She did not, as I recall, ask for the president to be shot.”

“So what would you tell her, if she told you that she was feeling guilty?”

“That she had been the victim of a random incident, an obsession with a famous person on the part of a madman. All too familiar for those in the public eye.”

“So, whenever you feel guilty, I’d like you to think of yourself the way you think of that actress.”

“But I – “

“No case will match yours perfectly, Mr. Holmes. Our goal here is not exactness, but breaking the negative thought cycle. Will you try that for me?”

“Al-alright.”

“Secondly, and here is where I think your true fault lies, Mr. Holmes, you took on your sister’s care when she was a prisoner. “

“After the death of our uncle, yes.”

“Why did you do this?”

“I – I seemed to be the logical choice.”

“You mean you thought no one else was competent to handle her.”

“I –“

“Mr. Holmes, your array of academic and professional achievements, even just the declassified ones, is very impressive. We will stipulate that you are the smartest man in the room, any room. That doesn’t make you the best person for every task. ”

“Doesn’t it?” Really, what did this woman know about the deals that he was currently, at that moment, brokering to keep several nations from going to war, to prevent a terrorist attack in Chiswick, to keep trade in vital pharmaceuticals flowing?

“No. Look, my Uncle Aditya is a classic textbook enabler of his wife’s classic, textbook shopping addiction. He has refinanced his house twice. I have to leave the room at every family gathering to stop myself from telling him to get her therapy, cut up her charge cards, remove her as a signatory from that account where you’ve stashed Anil’s university fees. I do this not because I don’t love my uncle; I do. Not because I’m not a good therapist; I am a bloody good therapist. It is the fact that my love for my uncle will compromise the fact that I am a bloody good therapist, and I will find myself yelling something like ‘Oh, just divorce the passive aggressive cow,’ and one of the first things they teach you in therapist school is that shouting divorce at the first appointment is shockingly poor form. Emotions can be a valuable guide, but we have to recognize when they might overwhelm our good judgments.”

Mycroft swallowed. He had once said the same thing to a PM poised to engage in military action. He would never have applied that idea to himself, though. Antarctica had no such concerns. Little slivers of doubt began to creep in, like light around the shades at dawn. 

“So I want you to talk to someone whose judgment you trust, who isn’t related to your sister. Ask them what they would have done differently. You need a benchmark. Can you do that?”

“I-perhaps.” Why did he just keep saying yes to this woman? 

Mycroft found himself outside her office afterwards, chain smoking his way through three cigarettes. He cadged some chewing gum off of his driver (more unheard of behavior), and then read three texts. His next errand would also be surreal, if only because it involved his brother. His entry into the flat at St. John’s Wood was poorly timed as far as John and Sherlock were concerned. On his way down the hall, their voices carried.

“How did you manage to get us banned from Tumbletots? It is run by nursery teachers, you know, the nicest people on the planet? The sort of people who smile when other human beings vomit on them. Yet you‘ve alienated them so thoroughly that, and this is a direct quote, ‘your family will probably be happier elsewhere.’ In nursery teacher dialect, that means ‘Curse you unto the tenth generation!’ What did you do? “

Mycroft entered the living room to find Sherlock rosining his violin bow, while John was holding a letter in one hand, with Rosamund on the other arm. She patted John’s cheek fondly.

“Da’y, Lock say slide is deftap.”

“You see, John,” Sherlock said. “Even the infant understands that the equipment is a series of deathtraps. Clearly, the maintenance has been ignored to a shocking degree.”

“The slides are two feet off the ground, Sherlock.”

“Nonetheless –” Both Sherlock and John looked up at Mycroft’s arrival. John quickly said, 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” and left the room. Sherlock followed him. A tiny figure tugged at Mycroft’s pantleg. He hesitated. He had never been good with children, even during his childhood. He decided to behave as if she were the Foreign Minister. Really, her level of maturity and information about political economy had to be quite similar.

“Good afternoon, Rosamund. Beastly weather we’re having.”

“Can’t pay outside.” Her forlorn look bore no small resemblance to Boris’ expression when rain prevented him from cycling into Whitehall. 

“Well, spring always comes eventually.” 

“Dolly?” Rosamund handed Mycroft a partially dressed action figure. Again, the metaphor proved apt, as Mycroft was well-practiced in turning down golf invitations from a certain quarter. 

“It would be my pleasure, but sadly, I have to be elsewhere.” He patted her head, Granted, he had never done that with the Foreign Minister, but some of the junior aides…

Sherlock re-emerged from the kitchen. 

“Rosie, ignore everything he says.” Rosamund pointed to Mycroft.

“No dolly.”

“I would imagine not, darling.” Sherlock turned to Mycroft and raised an eyebrow.

“I need to ask you two questions.” Mycroft looked pointedly in John’s direction. “Probably best done in private.”

“Right.” They entered Sherlock’s bedroom. Mycroft noted that John’s things were here, and both pillows were clearly being used. Sherlock noticed his noticing. Of course, neither articulated anything.

“I – Eurus, when you visit her. Is she speaking at all? To anyone?” Sherlock looked shocked.

“Not to me. The guards – they say not.”

“To, ah, to Mummy or Father?” 

“Not that I’ve seen. It wouldn’t be the sort of thing Mummy would keep to herself.”

“Indeed.” 

“This is to do with Lestrade’s warrant card?”

“Yes. It has turned up. In conjunction with someone with a probable connection to Eurus. A doctor. There is another possible point of contact as well.”

“Interesting.”

“Not the phrase I would have chosen.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I think we know what her weaknesses are now.”

Mycroft wished for the 10000th time that he had Sherlock’s confidence. Then again, that would probably require Sherlock’s indifference. An even trade, he supposed, but not one he was willing to make. Sherlock continued.

“I – Mycroft, I really don’t think she is in contact with anyone. I will tell you. I – I promise. And thank you for not asking in front of John. He is still - ”

“Of course. It is only normal.”

They were both silent for a moment, contemplating the sheer distance between normality and the Holmes family. Mycroft cleared his throat. 

“I need something else. Contact information for your friend, Craig.” 

“Surely you can get that.”

“Yes, but Craig is technically savvy enough to be put on high alert by an inquiry from the services. He’d be on a boat to Riga by nightfall.”

“Point taken.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed. Mycroft’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Thank you, brother mine.” Mycroft left Sherlock’s room. He jumped three feet when a head popped out of the kitchen. A head belonging to that Wiggins fellow who had drugged them all at Christmas.

“I’ve got freshly made kale chips, if anyone is interested.”

“I can’t stay, thank you. I shall see myself out.” As he trotted down the stairs, Mycroft marveled at Wiggins' confidence that a Holmes would ever again accept any food or drink that he had handled. 

Two hours later, armed with a reasonably calm dog and a small plastic bag of liver snaps, Mycroft headed to the grassy area at the end of his block. Greg should be in Cardiff by now. He wondered how they might be getting on with Evans. He resisted the urge to text. 

He had seen no sign as yet of Geoffrey Wilson, but he waited. Toby seemed not to mind. 

Mycroft didn’t really like dogs per se, but he had had to develop a certain degree of familiarity. A lot of issues in the UK, and the EU for that matter, got handled at various retreats and house parties at this country pile or the other. Mycroft had been raised in the country, so it was, of course, not the place he’d choose to spend his time. He had, however, mastered the conventions: wear tweeds, pack wellington boots just in case, mutter vague praise while patting a horse’s nose, send compliments to the kitchen, buy a round at the village local, and always, always make friends with the dog. It was remarkable just how much many of the movers and shakers loved their dogs far more than their family members. Hence the liver snaps, although there would be passive aggressive comments from his dry cleaner later.

Eventually, he had seen Geoffrey Wilson pull up in a blue Peugeot, park at the edge of the grassy and, accompanied by his listless dog, begin one of his walks past Mycroft’s own home. 

Mycroft had carefully studied the history of politics, intelligence, and diplomacy. Sometimes, when dealing with a foe that was most challenging, one tried to conceal that one had information. Witness the lengths to which the UK went to prevent Hitler’s finding out that the UK had cracked Enigma, the Nazis’ code, so that they could continue to receive messages unhindered. At other times, when dealing with a less sophisticated foe, it was often advisable to reveal one’s hand early. By overwhelming the foe, one could sometimes stop things before they escalated too far. Sometimes, it required rather more legwork than he liked, but needs must. 

Mycroft stepped into the street, followed by Toby.

“Hello, there. New to the neighborhood, I suppose.” Geoffrey Wilson froze. He looked as if he were going to faint. Mycroft continued. “Toby and I tend to come here regularly. How about you and …?” The shih-tzu cast a laconic eye over Mycroft, and an anxious one over Toby.

“Gretel.”

“Ah, yes, Gretel. So, will you be here in Richmond long?”

“Um, I…”

“Do I detect a Mancunian accent?”

“Well, yes. I..I just moved here.”

“Hmm. And yet your car has the Manchester February registration. Not planning on staying long?”

“Well, just sort of trying out the neighborhood.”

“Odd. No one locally has had any tenants turn over. What sort of business are you in Mr. - ?”

“Robinson.”

“Oh, I think not. Really, Robinson. This isn’t some motel near a highway.”

“Th-that’s my name. I’m in sales. Pharmaceuticals.”

“No, you’re obviously in catering. Pharmaceutical salesmen are generally visiting surgeries now; it’s after appointment hours. But your car has several tickets from hotel parking garages in Manchester under the windscreen, as well as a receipt for a bulk purchase of far more frozen puff pastry than this entire neighborhood could use.” Here, Mycroft suppressed a shudder at the thought of FROZEN puff pastry. Had no one any professional pride these days? 

Geoffrey Wilson (not Robinson) stopped making eye contact. “Now, then, Mr. Wilson. You’ve been making some payments to a Sue Molerush, I believe.”

“I – How did you – That’s not Illegal.”

“Hmm. That rather depends on what she used the money for.” Mycroft clapped his hands twice. Two large, burly men emerged from the shrubbery, and grabbed Wilson by either arm. “Ah, Phillip, Maurice. Please escort Mr. Wilson. The Code Green holding facility, I should think.”

Mycroft deftly grabbed Gretel’s lead and watched them go. Toby sat, quietly drooling on his shoes. Giorgio was going to have some choice words for Mycroft when he next was in Milan for resoling.

After dropping off Toby, and asking Anthea to look after Gretel, Mycroft instructed his driver to take him to the Green facility. Just a few seeds to plant. Sue Molerush. For his sister, that sort of alias was the equivalent of “phoning it in.” He was beginning to think that Mr. Wilson was a rather less important piece of the puzzle than he’d thought. 

At any rate, the man had been with Phillip and Maurice for 90 minutes now, and was probably growing nervous enough to talk. Phillip could clear his throat so ominously as to imply that death was imminent. Really, the day he’d recruited the pair of them from the Guildford School had been a fortunate day indeed. He’d put it to them that character parts for men of their size were rare enough on the London stage that a part time arrangement, with evening hours that allowed them to go to auditions during the day, could be mutually beneficial. They had accepted his offer the next day. Apparently, Maurice’s mother had put in a good word for the steadiness of a government pension.

Mycroft looked through the one way glass. Wilson was shaking his leg under the table. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, and put it back in his pocket. Mycroft decided that this was his cue. He entered, not smiling, and took a seat across from Wilson. He opened a file.

“Now then, your payments to Sue Molerush began approximately four months ago?”

“I, um, I –“ Here, Mycroft began to read off a series of dates and amounts in pounds. 

“Those would be the correct dates and times?” Wilson tried one last time.

“That’s not illegal.”

“Well, some of these amounts are large enough to require reporting. Was she an employee?”

“What? No! She –she’s a friend.”

“A friend you hired to murder several people?”

“Murder? What, no, she’d never.”

“Let me assure you, she did.” 

At this point, Wilson pounded his fist on the table.

“See here, Holmes – “ Holmes? 

Interesting. If Eurus had informed Wilson of her actual name, perhaps he was important after all. Wilson continued. Mycroft knew it was time to just listen. “She’s a sweet girl, diddled out of her rightful inheritance by the likes of you, her brother! Where is she?”

“Let me assure you that our parents are very much alive. We are beneficiaries to a family trust. My sister has not been allowed to benefit from it, as she has been incarcerated for murder for most of her life.”

“No – “

“How did you find me, by the way?” 

“Well, Sue said her brother was named Mycroft. It was easy enough to find you in the Harrow Old Boys magazine with Google. From there, the secretary in the alumni office had an address.” Wilson smiled. “I’ve been in business long enough to know that everyone has a price. Only fools underpay their secretaries.”

Damn and blast. It wasn’t enough that his loathsome secondary school had inflicted the customary damage to his psyche, they had to take his privacy with it. 

“Did you not think it odd that we had different surnames?”

“Well, you’re only half siblings. Now where is she?”

That again? Eurus had had Sherlock believing that for a good 6 months when he was in primary school. This was going to go nowhere as long as Wilson believed Eurus to be the aggrieved party. Mycroft didn’t want to hang about. Wilson seemed to have been duped, and, indeed, seemed to be searching for Eurus. If this man was anything more than a profoundly gullible small businessman, they needed to know. Mycroft queued up the tape of Eurus executing the prison governor’s wife on his laptop and played it. 

Wilson gasped audibly. “That can’t be!”

“That was a few weeks ago. No doubt she purchased the gun with money you gave her. You are in the custody of the British government, Mr. Wilson. Now is the time to begin talking.” Mycroft paused. “When did you meet her?”

“It was 6 months ago, in Cardiff. I had gone down to deliver a bid on some contracts. I was outside a newsagent’s. Sue was being hassled by some bloke. I ran him off, and we got to talking.” Mycroft had to stifle a laugh at the thought that his sister might be “hassled” by anyone from whom she didn’t want attention. Geoffrey Wilson had certainly been her mark. “We hit it off. She said she’d been done out of her inheritance by her brother. I gave her some cash sometimes, to tide her over.” Wilson paused. “I don’t want you to think that I am looking to get my money back. Those were gifts. Look, just where is she? Is she in the wind?”

“Thankfully, for all our sakes, no. She is in prison, and likely to remain there the rest of her life.” 

Mycroft rose to go. They could hold Wilson until tomorrow. He hadn’t asked for a solicitor. Quite odd, as most businesses had someone on retainer. Too embarrassed to reveal these goings on to his regular firm, likely.

“My Gretel, where is she?” called Wilson as Mycroft was sliding out the door.

“My assistant is quite fond of dogs, so my guess is that she is in a flat in Earl’s Court, sitting on a hand crocheted afghan, being spoon fed organic lamb.”

Mycroft was officially exhausted. He thought he had the measure of Geoffrey Wilson, but he would need a second opinion. Tomorrow. His driver responded immediately to a text.

When he walked in the door of his home, he poured himself a Scotch. As he drank, he kept seeing the governor’s wife die in his head, as if on autoloop. Verdi didn’t help, nor did setting the heat on its high setting. Then his text alert had come through.

Twenty minutes and a phone conversation with Greg later, Mycroft finally felt able to climb into bed. He drifted off, amidst memories of strong hands on his back and a comforting voice whispering that everything would be alright.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Greg awoke feeling more like himself than he had in a good while. It was a busy day ahead: He had to square things with Sal. Evans would be either bailed or remanded, with everyone’s money on the former. He had to talk to Mycroft about this Wilson fellow with the lap dog. Despite the fact that none of this was straightforward, Greg wasn’t facing the day with the sense of vague dread that would usually accompany a to-do list like that. He realized that he was really quite chuffed to be seeing Mycroft. God, it was worse than 1980, when he had had a crush on Andrew, the lad two rows ahead in his French class. 

Greg arrived at Scotland Yard at 8:00 am with two coffees. Donovan was at her computer, as he knew she would be. She looked up.

“Evans’ brief arrived from Cardiff half an hour ago, looking both annoyed and intimidated, if that’s possible. CPS will file, and they feel sure of at least something sticking, given his possession of your warrant card. They won’t ask for remand, though. Not enough danger to society.”

“Flight risk, though.”

“They’ll take the passport.”

“Well alright, hope for the best.” 

“He’s a right berk, Boss. Six complaints about rudeness and insults from former patients. Nothing about incompetence, though, so he’s skated by, mostly by moving about.”

“We need to know if he has some connection with this bloke, Geoffrey Wilson.”

“He’s your FR search from yesterday, right.”

“Right. Look, Sal, my office, yeah?” They went into Greg’s office. Greg shut the door, and glanced through the window for little pitchers. “I promised I’d tell you about the background here. You heard me ask Evans about Eurus Holmes yesterday.”

“And he admitted he’d treated her. She’s that special prisoner on the island, yeah?” 

“Yeah. She’s, ah, she’s their sister.” Sal was silent, expectant. “And everything you thought about Sherlock during his first years with us, the psychopathy, the disdain for lesser humans, all that, is true of the sister. She’s been locked up since childhood. She’s killed more than once. She’s… she’s tried to kill her brothers more than once.” It had just sort of gushed out. He hadn’t meant to tell her quite so much, didn’t even know what it was okay to tell her. She needed to know. She’d earned it. Besides, he couldn’t handle his investigation solo. He needed to reach out.

 

“Well that would mess anyone up.” She looked at the ground for a bit. “But surely, with that huge prison, the guards. I mean, they’re not letting her communicate with anyone?”

“No, but that’s what they thought before.”

“That’s why we replaced the staff there. She compromised some of them.”

“She somehow, I don’t really know how, but she convinces people to do things. The thing is, she’s gone silent, or so they think.”

“So you’re trying to figure out whether there’s a real problem here”

“Yeah.”

“And this Geoffrey Wilson?”

“Been seen near the brother’s house.”

“Mycroft, the MI – whatever brother?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, Boss, there must be a lot of people seen near his house.”

“It’s pretty residential, and they discreetly keep tabs on comings and goings. This bloke doesn’t really have a reason to be there. He’s a caterer from Manchester with a lot of nice fat public contracts.” 

“You know the neighborhood well, do you, Boss? It wouldn’t be near Kew, would it?”

Shit. The downside of being a detective was that everyone you worked with was also a detective. 

“This is me, ignoring that question. He’ll be by this morning. You can ask him yourself.”

“No, thanks. I like my life here, outside of all foreign prisons. But don’t be late with his tea, Boss. You might end up there yourself. ”

“It makes literally no difference to you that I write your performance evaluation every year, does it?”

‘’Not really.”

“Right, I’ll email you Wilson’s file. I’ve a few ideas about possible connections, but I want you to approach this fresh. We’ll pursue my bit, if, and only if, you get stuck.”

Sally exited, and managed to suppress a giggle, as she passed Mycroft on his way into Greg’s office, carrying two coffees.

“Sergeant Donovan seems full of joie de vivre today.”

“I had to tell her a few things, and she inferred a few more.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft, handing Greg a large coffee.

Greg smiled. He could get used to this sort of service.

“So in addition to being in possession of my warrant card, and his flimsy story about some non-descript bloke handing it to him, he showed Sal a fake i.d. that he’d nicked off another doctor. The other man filed a report with the Cardiff Main Squad, which helps us rather nicely. It’s hard to know what he was expecting to get from me or Sal and Roberts. He admits to knowing Eurus, but what does she do for him now?”

“It hardly bears close examination,” Mycroft murmured, with a frown that Greg almost interpreted as fear. Mycroft continued. “We have Wilson in custody. He is either quite a good liar or a complete fool. My guess is the latter.”

“Anything interesting come up on your end?” 

“He has been making payments, some quite large, to a Sue Molerush.” 

Greg paused, and then saw it.

“Not a personal best effort from your sister, then.” 

Mycroft smiled

“Indeed not. She had told him that I had cheated her out of her inheritance.”

“She went with damsel in distress and missing inheritance? Did she think he was born yesterday?”

“My sister thinks that about most people. Either Wilson is a gullible dupe or an excellent liar. I’d like your opinion on him, either way.”

Greg smiled. This asking for help bit was progress for Mycroft, for sure. Of course, it might be that Mycroft really knew whether Wilson was lying, and he was just asking to give Greg a reason to hang about on the case. That was also progress though, just of another sort.

“There is - There is something else I’d like your opinion on, as well. I, well, I’ve been seeing someone.”

Greg felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He kept his features carefully neutral. He was surprised by how devastated he felt. Then he was concerned. Mycroft wasn’t really ready for a relationship. Clearly someone was taking advantage of him. Besides, someone like Mycroft didn’t have time...hang on, when exactly was this affair supposed to have taken place, and maybe he’d gotten the wrong end of the stick?

Mycroft was going on. 

“She comes highly recommended. She suggested some exercises. One was to ask someone else what they would have done in my place, if they had been put in charge of their sibling’s care. “

Greg hoped his relief blended in with his delight. Smiling broadly, he clapped Mycroft on the back. 

“I’m really chuffed to hear that. It took real courage to start that. I know it wasn’t easy.” Greg hesitated. “I should have told you this before, but I think I might have an answer for your therapist. I deliberately asked for my first posting to be in Ealing, even though I lived pretty far east of there. Our Paul was always a bit wild. Nothing too noteworthy, but a fair amount of weed, and more cigarettes and alcohol without tax stamps than you can shake a stick at. He was also known to buy them in big lots and sell the leftovers to his friends.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat

“That must have made things complicated for you.”

“He never brought it to Mum and Dad’s; by that time, he was always in some squat or other and mostly turned up at Sunday dinner. By staying far to the west of his usual haunts, I was able to stay out of whatever he was up to at the moment. ” Greg took a breath. “I probably should have told you. I shouldn’t have let you think you had the only brother in the world who had a weakness for mind alteration. It’s just, Paul had cleaned up and moved to India by the time I met you. I didn’t want to try to compare my problems to yours. Mine had mostly cleared up, so it would have felt…petty.” Greg braced himself. Mycroft cleared his throat again. 

“But if you had witnessed something. Or if he had been arrested and come to you for help?”

“I would have called someone else to take the report. Then I would have recused myself, told Paul to keep quiet, and gotten him the best lawyer I could. At the time, it would have been someone who accepted payment in lager coasters…” 

Mycroft looked thoughtful. Sally poked her head in the door.

“Boss, Evans had made bail and is leaving with his brief.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft, tapping a few keystrokes on his phone. “I believe, Greg, that you have a rather nice view of the façade of the building.” He began walking to the window. He turned. “Sergeant Donovan, I believe you might appreciate the view as well.” Greg and Sally followed Mycroft to the window, and looked out. Two of the largest men Greg had ever seen were flashing i.d. cards and wrestling Craig Evans into one of Mycroft’s cars, followed by a man with a leather satchel bleating at them ineffectually.

“I’m a bit disturbed by how much satisfaction I’m feeling right now,” said Greg with a grin.

“My word. Has the man’s brief really worn pinstripes and counterfeit Louboutin shoes? This might be easier than I had anticipated.”

Greg felt a rush of affection for Mycroft. 

“Where did you find those two huge blokes?

“The Guildford School of Drama. Phillip’s final year rendition of Lear was quite remarkable. You may have heard Maurice in a few bit parts on the Archers. At any rate, if you will proceed with me to our holding facility, I can question Evans after a fashion, and you can evaluate Geoffrey Wilson. We will have to release Wilson this evening. Sergeant Donovan, are you continuing your inquiries into connections between the two?”

Sally looked at Greg, who nodded.

“Um..Yes.”

“Thank you. Would you text DI Lestrade with your progress? Someone in my office is making parallel inquiries. If there is any connection, we’ll need to know straightaway.”

“Right, of course. Boss, is this sticky note from you? The one that says Shih Tzu Association on it.”

“Yeah, well, you never know where the slimmest leads will take you.”

“Riiiiight.”

Greg grabbed his coat, and followed Mycroft out. He didn’t make eye contact with Donovan. Mycroft’s car drove them over the river, down through Southwark, and into Bermondsey. He pulled up in front of a warehouse. Greg looked down the block, taking in the artisanal cheese shop and the Swedish bathroom fittings store.

“Neighborhood’s a bit swish for a holding facility?” 

Mycroft grimaced.

“You have no idea what it’s like trying to keep our undisclosed locations ahead of the property market these days. We have at least one junior housing minister in our office every week shouting about “reallocation of resources” and “opportunity costs” and demanding that we sell the land or turn it over to them. I’ve taken to having Anthea shred the paperwork for their security clearances, but they always find out eventually.”

“Heavy lies the head that wears the Crown.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Mycroft primly. Greg was agog as he swiped a platinum colored i.d. card and submitted to an iris scan. Three successive doors then popped open and closed after them. They proceeded down a long sterile hallway to a shorter sterile hallway lined with doors. Mycroft peered in the one way glass window into the first. Greg looked over his shoulder. Craig Evans sat at a table, and clearly was fuming. His solicitor had the sense to look terrified.

“Perhaps a bit longer,” said Mycroft. He continued down the hallway to the last door. Geoffrey Wilson was sat at a table, despair written over his face. “I think we should handle them sequentially. If you would take Wilson, I shall remain here. I can also listen. Then, perhaps, I can speak to Evans.”

“Do you promise to scare the bejeezus out of him while I watch?”

“If you’re very good,” said Mycroft.

“Right. Molerush, was it?” 

“Indeed.”

Greg felt a small secret thrill that Mycroft wanted to see him in action, and another that Mycroft wanted to show off in front of him. He opened the door. He noted that the standard equipment was in the interview room. He had taken a folder of random forms when he left the yard. 

“Geoffrey Wilson?”

“Yeah,” said Wilson listlessly.

Greg decided not to go with older brother or younger brother. He decided on Equally Hapless Member of the Baffled by Relationships Club. Wasn’t too far off these days, anyway.

“Right, then. I’m Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard. You’ve probably guessed those blokes are security services. We’re having a bit of a jurisdictional wrangle with them. My DSI has no love for ‘em. Says MI stands for Meddling Interferers. Probably best for you if you end up with us city coppers. Anyway, I may need to go over some details again, since we have our own separate set of paperwork. You know how it is, I mean, you’re in catering. Endless regulations right?”

“Too right,” said Wilson, sitting up a bit. Greg flipped open his folder and spread out a few forms for effect.

“Right then. Now what date did you first meet this Sue Molerush?”

“Well, about 6 months ago. A bloke was bothering her outside a bar.”

“And you stepped in, like a decent human being.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Mate, I hate to tell you how many people who don’t have your integrity just walk on by a situation like that.” Geoffrey Wilson looked at his hands modestly. Greg continued, “So then…”

“Well, we sort of hit it off. She loves dogs too, and she’d worked in some restaurants, so she knew a bit about catering.”

“Sounds promising. I mean, we all want to end up with someone we can talk to, who shares our interests.”

Wilson nodded.

“She was a bit short of money. She’d been, well, she said she’d been done out of an inheritance by her brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

“And that seemed to fit her pattern of behavior.” 

“Well, yeah. She never seemed to have much contact with her family. She had problems with bills, but clearly, she was educated, you know, used to the finer things. So, at one time, she must have been part of a well-off family.”

Greg raised his eyebrows.

“You sure you weren’t a detective in another life, mate?”

“Well, it all just stands to reason, doesn’t it?” 

Greg shut his folder. 

“Thing is, mate, she is really from a well-off family, and she really has been done out of her inheritance. You were on the money about that. But it was the government what done it, not her brother.” Wilson looked down at his hands, nodding. He didn’t make eye contact with Lestrade. “Look mate, you weren’t to know that last bit. She’s really clever. Outsmarted even that brother what’s in the services. She does that helpless thing, does it with everyone. The natural instinct of a decent person is to give in to it. Help her out.” Greg really hoped Mycroft was really hearing, as well as listening. “It was the same with my ex-wife. We liked the same food, the same music. She seemed to really admire me, what I did. I wanted something settled, with someone I got along with, you know.” 

Wilson nodded. Greg continued.

“It seemed to work, for a while. Turns out, she was cheating on me. She taught at a school, worked her way through the faculty. History teacher, arts master, and finally the PE teacher.” Greg looked down. “I felt such a fool.” He cleared his throat. “How much did you give her, for the record?”

“25,000 pounds.” Wilson seemed more sad than angry. “Said it was for rent, groceries, gas, and a final vet bill for her dog what died.” 

Ouch. Eurus had really done a number on him.

“I think you got off cheap, mate. Mine didn’t show her hand until we’d been married long enough that she’ll get a third of my pension, for life.” That bit was completely true. 

“Sue, I mean, she’s really locked away?”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

“And she’s really…she’s killed people?”

“Sorry to say so, mate. Mostly blokes taken in by her. Look, I’ve got to call my superiors, see if they have this sorted. Would you like a sandwich or something?” Wilson nodded. “We also need to question Craig Evans?” Greg watched for a reaction.

“Did she have another bloke on a string?” Wilson seemed almost hopeless. There was no sign of recognition. Greg got up and left the room. Mycroft was waiting in the hallway outside of the field of view of those in the interview room. He didn’t look at Greg directly.

“You have a gift for getting people to open up to you.” 

Greg smiled.

“Comes in handy here, but really only a couple of people I really want to know about.” He looked at Mycroft intently. Mycroft looked away again. Greg resisted the urge to grab his hand, something, and went back to abject professionalism. “I tell you, Mycroft, I think he really is a hapless dupe. I’m getting a lot of genuine despair from him. He doesn’t have any of the tells: he’s speaking in specifics, speaking more about other people than himself.”

“Indeed. And he didn’t seem to recognize Evans’ name.” 

“Speak of the devil.”

“Rather. Anthea has found nothing connecting Evans to Wilson. “

“I’ve heard nothing from Sal, but it’s early days yet.”

Mycroft looked at him as if he were about to say something, and then thought better of it.

“We shall have to release them soon, though.”

“I guess you’d better work your magic then,” said Greg with a smile. He felt surprisingly optimistic. Mycroft read a few text messages, pulled a folder (which Greg suspected was not full of irrelevant forms) from his briefcase, and then went into the far door, where Evans had been left to fume with his hapless attorney. He pressed the intercom button as he went. He also signaled for one of the large blokes (Maurice, Greg thought) to follow him.

Greg went over and looked through the one way glass. Mycroft seated himself at the table across from Evans, who looked mad enough to spit. Greg took this opportunity to send two text messages.

“What’s the meaning of this, Holmes? You know you can’t hold me here.” 

Mycroft regarded him coolly. 

“Dr. Evans. I’m a bit less pressed for time than the last time I saw you. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending to not be in possession of facts that we both know. You treated my sister a year ago and again at monthly intervals from that time.” Evans was silent. “You’ve certainly read her file and know that she is a once in a generation intelligence. She wouldn’t deliberately choose to associate herself with anyone of ordinary brain power. She would have glommed onto people with a certain…level of education.”

Greg was impressed. Narcissists like Evans were tricky. Confrontation just made them angry to the point of incoherence. Refusing to engage or argue was best. This hint of flattery that Mycroft was adding in, well, that was a masterstroke. It was the sort of subtlety that Greg never felt he himself could pull off. Evans was almost preening.

“She was languishing in that facility, with no real equals to speak to.”

“Quite. So she embraced you. You, in turn supplied her with large doses of Halidol, which can act as a tranquilizer. She then used those in her criminal exploits.”

“Did I?”

“Indeed. Cardiff University Hospital reports a certain amount missing from their facility, with amounts taken on three occasions. You were the only doctor on the duty roster at all three times.”

“Craig, don’t answer that.” Ah, the solicitor speaks at last.

“Coincidence.”

“Possibly, possibly. Added, though, to the coincidence of your being in possession of your colleague’s i.d., and that of Inspector Lestrade. Quite a few coincidences. I think you will find most of our justices are disinclined to believe that the universe is so lazy. Again, Dr. Evans, no need to go back and forth over facts known to us both.“ Evans stayed silent, but looked thoughtful. 

Jesus, Mycroft was now “teaming” with Evans against his own brief. Greg wished this could be a training film for his sergeants. 

“Now, you then determined that your best course of action was to isolate Inspector Lestrade from his team to extract information from him. You had, after all, been in possession of his warrant card, stolen by my sister, for some time. You had also seen him with me, and had assumed, quite accurately, that he would be a worthwhile target amongst the investigating personnel. Do not fear that we in the services suspect that you intended to harm him physically. There are after all, methods at your disposal that allow greater finesse. It was simply bad luck that the sleet storm prevented you from making contact with him.” Here, Mycroft almost beamed at Evans. “We are, despite our resources, having a bit of trouble determining how you knew he would be at Kew that evening.”

His attorney was simply not faster than Evans’ ego. 

“I’ve always thought those rumors about drug dealing in Kew were unfounded, perhaps based on, shall we say, false tips. I’VE never seen anything untoward,” Evans said with a Cheshire-esque smile. His attorney had a frozen look of horror on his face. Greg suspected that this was going to be the case that drove him to flee to a small village to open a wills and mortgages practice. 

“Of course,” noted Mycroft. “Well, I think that about does it.” He turned toward Evans’ now pale attorney, “Maurice here will escort your client back to New Scotland Yard. Your client will be facing charges of narcotic theft, narcotic distribution, and criminal conspiracy to detain unlawfully. The fact that it was a police officer he was planning on detaining will complicate things further, I’m afraid. I should count on remand.” Mycroft swept out. Greg glanced at Evans, who appeared enraged, and even began to stand, but caught sight of Maurice and thought better. 

Greg went up to Mycroft. It was really all he could do to refrain from kissing him. He leaned forward and whispered.

“That may be the most arousing thing I’ve seen all week.” Mycroft blushed. Greg then remembered that he was supposed to be low key and low pressure. Professional, Greg, professional. “I think we have an opportunity here, with both of them in the building…”

“Agreed. Ah.” Mycroft had noted the arrival of Anthea. She had a large cardboard carrier of cups of tea, and a bag of what turned out to be extremely posh egg salad sandwiches. 

“One advantage of the neighborhood,” she noted primly. Phillip came through the door, carrying Wilson’s dog in one massive hand. Anthea beamed at it, and took the dog into a back room. Greg could have sworn she called it Snookums. He must have misheard. Mycroft signaled Phillip.

“On Detective Inspector Lestrade’s signal, the man in Room 1 back to New Scotland Yard, if you please.”

“Will you be needing us after that, Mr. Holmes?”

“No. An audition?” 

Phillip nodded.

“They’re casting a new Bond film.”

“Break a leg, Mate,” said Greg, before turning and walking down the hall. He put his hand on the knob and waved to Phillip, who went into Room 1. Greg entered the room where Wilson was waiting. 

“Mr. Wilson, can you come out, please , to select a sandwich.” Wilson came out and headed to the table where Anthea had left the bag. Just then, Phillip and Maurice brought a still sputtering Craig Evans out. Evans gave no sign of recognition of Wilson, despite looking at him clearly. Wilson looked up as Maurice and Phillip hauled Evans out the front door. 

“That bloke has a bit of a flea in his ear. It’s all go for you lot today.” Wilson regarded his sandwich with interest. “This mayonnaise seems quite nice. Mind you, these bespoke ingredients really take a piece out of your bottom line, and you can’t always get that back from the customer.” Wilson took his sandwich back into the room at the end of the hall. 

Greg’s phone beeped, and he looked at it. Mycroft picked up one of the cups of tea. 

“I noted no signs of recognition.”

“No. Look, I know a few blokes at Manchester Central. From football and all. They’re willing to keep an eye on Wilson, informally. Mind you, they’re convinced he’s alright. He caters their staff canteen, and they say his bacon sarnies are unequaled in all the realm. Even without the artisanal mayonnaise.” 

Mycroft smiled.

“Greg, I should have told you the information we had on Evans, but – “

“There wasn’t time, I know. I saw all of those texts you got.” Greg’s phone beeped again. “Speaking of which.” He regarded the screen idly, then with more intent. “Hang on, Sal has a connection between Wilson and Evans. It’s thin. They both have credit card transactions with someplace called ‘RAF Transit,’ in Cardiff. Not in the same month, though.” 

Mycroft looked thoughtful. 

“It’s a start. We shan’t hold Wilson. I think it may be best to give him his head, so to speak.” Mycroft looked worried.

“What is it?” said Greg softly. 

“I think it unlikely to the point of implausibility that either Evans or Wilson has access to firearms.” 

“So there’s someone else out there.”

“SomeONE, at the very least.” They both grew silent. Greg leaned over the bag Anthea had brought, and pulled out a sandwich. 

“Here. It’s well past lunch.” They sat and ate in companionable silence. When they had finished, Greg cleared his throat.

“So your, er, therapist. When do you see her again?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Do you feel like she’s helping?”

“I do not know. I find that I can’t ignore her, at any rate.”

“Probably a good sign,” said Greg with a grin.

“Hmm. There are only two other women I can’t ignore, and no that does not include the Prime Minister.”

“Anthea and your mum?”

“Got it in one.” Mycroft sent a brief text and cleared his throat. “So, I think Wilson feels more comfortable with you.” 

Anthea appeared carrying Gretel. Greg went down the hall, shaking his head. Mycroft’s whole life was his professional life, and that was a carefully orchestrated ballet. No wonder his unpredictable siblings knocked him for a loop. He peeled open the door of the last interview room.

“Mr. Wilson, you’re free to go.”

Wilson stepped out of the interview room, and was delighted to see his dog.

“Gretel!” he shouted, gathering her up and, not looking a gift horse in the mouth, rushing out of the building. Greg looked at the security camera. Wilson raced out, hailed the nearest taxi, and leapt in. Greg turned back to Mycroft. Anthea discreetly repaired back to the back room, reminding Mycroft of a meeting with the Egyptian ambassador that afternoon as she went.

“She’s going to miss that dog, isn’t she?”

“Mmm.”

“Guess I’d better be going back to the office.” Greg hesitated. “Look – I’ve got a football match tomorrow afternoon, but later, call me and let me know how your appointment went, right?”

“Alright.” Mycroft didn’t hesitate, which Greg regarded as an encouraging sign. He reached out and squeezed Mycroft’s arm. Then he left, striding quickly to the Tube.

The afternoon proved fruitless. He and Sal poured over several databases and made a lot of calls. RAF Transit wasn’t a business in Manchester, Cardiff, or London. It was probably either a shell company, or it was one of those payment processing firms that shows up as some weird name you don’t recognize on your credit card statement until you realize it’s a payment processing firm in the Channel Islands used by the bitty souvenir shop in Lyme where you bought a bottle of water and some postcards two weeks back. Greg submitted requests to several registries, but the replies would take days. 

Greg rose from his desk and stretched. He was a bit frustrated, but really, progress was being made. Hard to tell where it was all leading just yet, but now he had confidence that they would get some answers. The fact that Craig Evans was stewing in a cell for the time being didn’t hurt. Not for the first time, Greg felt as if he and Mycroft made a good team. Okay, maybe it was fairer to say that they ran good teams. Greg didn’t want to downplay Anthea and Sally, and he was starting to feel strangely proprietary about Phillip and Maurice. 

Back at his flat, he changed into his running clothes. While dodging dog walkers, hydrants, and loading lorries, his thoughts kept drifting back to Mycroft. He didn’t know where this was going, but he hoped it would go someplace. The fact that Mycroft had agreed to see a therapist was far more progress than he had dared hope. Back at his flat, he dragged himself into the shower, and then deposited himself on the sofa with some leftover chicken something or other. His fatigue today was a good fatigue, righteously earned. For the first time in a while, the future seemed less like a vague vast unknown, and more like something to look forward to.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Mycroft sat outside Shireen’s office. He had done at least some of what she had asked. He had spoken to Greg. He had also spent quite a bit of time thinking about Jodie Foster. He had met her once, briefly, at Davos. She was very quiet, until she had silenced a bloviating Swiss delegate with a single sentence of flawless French that revealed his total misconception of Foucault’s work. Mycroft couldn’t put himself in her category, the innocent obsession of a madman. He was though, after a fashion, one of the obsessions of a madwoman. Just not innocent. And not really, for that matter, her primary obsession. Eurus had always really wanted Sherlock’s attention. 

His reverie was broken when the door opened. 

“Mr. Holmes, come in.” They entered, and Mycroft sat in the chair he had used at his last appointment. 

“Have you been able to complete the exercises we discussed?”

“Ah, after a fashion, yes. I am not certain they are having the desired effect.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, I have thought quite a bit about Jodie Foster, the American actress. I still can’t see my situation as very analogous to hers.”

“Did you ask your sister to kill people to get your attention?”

“Certainly not.”

“So what makes your situation different?”

“She was innocent. I had a hand in giving my sister certain… opportunities.”

“Her meeting with Moriarty.”

“Good lord, is that in the file?”

“ ‘Fraid so.” 

Mycroft shook his head.

“I should have known better. But worse than that, I failed to see that the staff had been compromised. It was easier for me for Eurus to be locked away, so in my mind, she was. I should have known no prison would hold her.”

“She’s locked away now.”

“But I believe that prison to be of her own making. If she were actively trying to oppose us now, I think we’d be in more trouble.” The words tumbled out almost without his having to think about them. Why was he so sure, given their current investigation? 

“But previously?”

“She engaged with guards, her therapist, others…” Mycroft thought of Wilson and Evans. “I should have foreseen her power over them. “ 

Shireen began writing. It took all of Mycroft’s self-discipline not to roll his eyes. 

“Isn’t it a bit much to expect that you can tell the future?”

“Hardly. I make my living doing just that.”

“Right, but when you are concentrating on world domination, and your counterparts are other countries, it’s possible to predict your competitors’ actions because you know what they want. When you add mental illness to the mix, people often have disorganized thinking. The mentally ill start from false premises, and they may not want what most people want. Their actions become harder to predict. You are holding yourself to an impossible standard, Mr. Holmes. ”

Was he? Wasn’t it the destiny of a Holmes to meet standards that looked impossible to other people?

“I could have known. I knew what she was. What she was capable of.”

“Did you really? Did you know better than all of the other people who had been involved with her care, for years on end?” 

“Well, yes. I am her brother, and I had been intimately acquainted with her case for years. I had the necessary distance, and the necessary skills.”

Shireen was silent. Mycroft sat, while the seconds ticked on. Mycroft found this unbearable. Why wasn’t she saying anything? Finally she spoke

“Before you took over your sister’s care, there was another relative.” She flipped a page of notes. “A Rudyard Lambert?”

“Uncle Rudy. My mother’s brother.”

“Ah, yes. I believe it was he who set up her treatment plan. Do you think he could have predicted her actions?” 

Mycroft considered. Rudy had always been able to chart his way through the waters of international intrigue. Mycroft had never known him, in his lifetime to be wrong.   
“Uncle Rudy was often right. Yet, he may have miscalculated on certain fronts. My parents are… far more upset than he would have anticipated to learn that Eurus is alive and that they hadn’t known. Yet, I am the one who sought to bring Eurus into contact with the world. I gave her access to information. I thought we could use her mind, and we did. It was a calculated risk. A miscalculated one, as it turns out.”

“You think that given the internet, the resources that you have now, your uncle would have made a different choice than you made?”

“Quite possibly.”

“But you admit that even he was fallible.”

“Well, yes.”

“And if he had made this mistake that you made, what would you have thought of him?”

Mycroft hesitated.

“My general reaction when people make errors like this is to lament their limitations.”

“You see errors like this as evidence of lesser ability?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t blame people for their limitations.”

“No. I sometimes despair that they have been promoted above their ability level.”

“Do you think that managing your sister might have been above your ability level?”

“She always was the smart one,” he said, sighing. Shireen laughed out loud. Mycroft at first felt indignant, but then he felt, momentarily, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Shireen was speaking again.

“I suspect you are beginning to see, Mycroft. If a freak snowstorm hit the capital, would you blame yourself for not having forseen that?” 

“Given the satellite data etc., I can’t imagine being surprised by such an event.”

“Alright, bad example. Suppose the Queen asked you for advice on a horse race? Would you hold yourself responsible for predicting the outcome?”

“I would never presume to advise Her Majesty on thoroughbred racing. Her knowledge of the subject is vastly superior to mine. That said, she often places bets that are unsuccessful. Too many variables – the other horses, their diets, course conditions - affect the outcome of a race for the winner to be predictable.”

“Too many variables. That is an excellent way of putting it. For next time, I’d like you to start thinking of your sister as a large set of variables.”

“I think I should manage that. My brother is also such a set.” 

Shireen laughed again.

“Mine too. Now, given that your sister is necessarily complex, let’s talk about you other assignment: thinking about the advisability of taking her care onto yourself. Did you ask someone about that?”

“I did,” said Mycroft hesitantly. 

“What did that person say?”

“The person, ah, said that they would have turned the official supervision of their relative over to another person. In fact, the person had had some personal experience with this.”

“And, who was this person? Was it your friend, Greg?”

“Yes, it was.” And now she was writing again. 

“Would you say Greg is a close friend?”

“Ye-es. At this point, I would say so.” More writing.

“Is he, perhaps, more than a friend?”

“Is this strictly necessary?”

“I assure you, Mycroft, that everything you say here is completely confidential. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I am, though, going to remind you that you will gain benefits to therapy to the extent that you put in the work, and that sometimes involves looking carefully at things in your life that you might prefer not to scrutinize too closely.”

Ironic, thought Mycroft, that really, he would love to scrutinize Greg as closely as possible.

“Very well. Greg and I have, ah, been intimate, yes.”

“But you wouldn’t refer to him as a partner or boyfriend.”

“This has been a - a recent development. We are, that is, he was unsure about proceeding at this stage. I agree with his reluctance.” She was onto a second paragraph now.

“Why is that?” 

“He suggested that it might be difficult to embark on a relationship while still dealing with the emotional after effects of – of my sister.” Dear Lord, she was halfway through a second legal-sized page of notes. 

“And what do you think?”

Mycroft swallowed. 

“I think he is correct. It would be easy for our relationship to turn into a dependence for me, at this time. Or a distraction.”

“And you have identified that a potential problem?”

“It might limit the relationship, or cause it to end before its time.” She nodded and continued writing. Mycroft would monitor the relevant journals. If he turned up as a case study in the Annals of Personality Disorders, Volume 23, Issue 2, he was going to arrange for all of this woman’s mortgage applications to be red-flagged.

“But he has been a sounding board for you.”

“Well, yes. We are working on an…issue together.”

“And, have you had a close friend, like this? Someone you could talk to?” 

“Not in recent memory, no.” How did this woman consistently make him, for lack of a better term, spill his guts?

“This week, Mycroft, in addition to thinking of your sister as a set of variables, I would like you to compile a list of the people who have given you emotional support in your life, and what they have had in common.” Well, that would be a short list. Still, Mycroft just nodded, as he left the office.

He had thought ahead this time, and had brought enough cigarettes of his own.

After a hastily grabbed luncheon in his office, Mycroft took advantage of the fact that his Saturdays were generally largely free of meetings to indulge in a guilty pleasure. He had taken the liberty of scouring the Lambeth Council sports field bookings, had found Greg’s football team (with Greg’s name on the reservation as the contact), and had directed that he receive all feed from the CCTV cameras on that field. He opened the relevant program on his laptop. Greg’s team was playing against Essex Search and Rescue. Mycroft had a bit of a soft spot for that agency, to the extent that Mycroft had soft spots, since they had, unbeknownst to them, fished several of his better agents out of the water. That part of the coast was rather good for assets who, after returning from work on the continent, needed to enter the country without going through customs. Hapless Swimmer was one of the first generic identities included in MI-5 and 6 training.

Greg had gotten there first. He seemed to be carrying the bulk of the equipment in his car, and he was clearly the person who had made up the rosters, as all of his arriving team members checked in with him shortly after they turned up. Greg was also the person who communicated with the captain of the opposing team. Many of the players turned up with wives or partners in tow, mostly women, who repaired to the stands. One of Greg’s junior PCs (Roberts, was it?) arrived with two friends, one of whom clearly has a crush on him, and the other who was eyeing one of the younger Essex wives all afternoon. 

The referee arrived, and play commenced. Mycroft didn’t follow football any more than he followed Olympic bobsledding. He had, of course, learned the basics of the game as a schoolboy, and had once met Cristiano Ronaldo whilst dining with the Clooneys. Greg, as nearly as he could tell, was an above average player, although several on both teams were clearly better, which was only to be expected given the age range. Conversely, at least one person on the NSY side was showing alarming signs of hypertension. Greg appeared to be enjoying himself, and he looked distractingly good in those shorts. He was definitely on, though. He had to separate a younger teammate from coming to blows with members of the opposing team. When the game was done, he again conferred with the opposing captain. They and the referee apparently all had to sign something reporting the results to their league.

His teammates all slapped each other’s backs, and shook hands with the opposing side. The paired-off men left with their partners, and the younger men said something about a pub before meandering off. Greg, the last man on the pitch, put two pair of gloves, the spare footballs, and several clipboards in his trunk. He did a last walk-through of the field to make sure nothing had been left. He climbed into his car and sat for a bit.

Mycroft felt a pang. This was vintage Greg. Taking care of the details, smoothing things over, and remaining completely unappreciated by those he was supporting. Interestingly, these were states of being that Mycroft himself actually deliberately cultivated, but he was not surrounded by all of this domestic bliss and bonhomie that seemed to be thrown back in Greg’s face even in his leisure hours. Greg liked people; they liked him, but not enough to really see him. Mycroft recalled that Greg had once, a number of years before, invited Sergeant Donovan to a match as they were both standing in his office. Her casual rejoinder that if his wife “couldn’t be arsed to watch a group of middle aged men lumbering about a pitch,” then neither could she, suggested that Greg’s wife hadn’t come to his games even when they were married. 

At this point, Greg got out of his car and began smoking a cigarette. He was quite near the camera, which was trained on the carpark for safety reasons. 

Mycroft was seized with a sudden urge to call Greg. He tried to stifle it. It was really a bit 6th Form. He decided that his therapist would say that Greg was part of his support network, and Mycroft should call him. He was beginning to think that the point of therapy was the ability to rationalize things that you wanted to do anyway. 

Greg picked up immediately. 

“Hey, Sunshine. How was your appointment?”

Typical of Greg to be asking about him first.

“It wasn’t too taxing. She encouraged me to think of Eurus as a large set of variables that might be too complex to manage.”

“Good enough. Sherlock already fits the bill, although he is manageable on maybe two out of three occasions.”

“Remarkable. That’s exactly the percentage I would have suggested.”

“Great minds and all that.”

“She, ah, also asked me about you.”

“Did she? Was it about the thing with my brother?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid I told her rather more than that. I swear, Greg, I am lucky she is not working with Putin. I should be spilling the nation’s secrets.”

“Well, that’s her job, innit? I think it’s a combination of the fact that she can’t tell anyone else what you’ve said, and the relief of finally getting things off your chest that you didn’t realize you needed to tell someone until you did.”

That was it precisely. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“She, ah, wormed out of me a few details about you.”

“Yeah? Hopefully not last year’s donut consumption.”

“Er, no.”

“You probably know, though.”

Mycroft laughed. 

“We do have an aggregate figure for the Yard as a whole.” He could tell Greg’s silence meant that he was pondering whether Mycroft was joking. Mycroft continued.   
“She, er, she managed to get me to, ah, characterize our relationship.” He could almost hear Greg smiling.

“Characterize? Sounds like those people who come in to evaluate our efficiency every five years.”

Mycroft braced himself.

“I admitted that we have slept together.”

“Mycroft, I rather doubt that at your age that she thought you were pure as the driven snow.”

“I am not used to discussing my private affairs with all and sundry.”

“Right, but you’re not. She’s not all and sundry; she’s one, and I imagine she’s nicely credentialed. A first class degree, then?

“During her undergraduate work, naturally.”

“Naturally. Someone who will behave professionally, then.” Greg hesitated. “You don’t have to answer this, but…”

“I mentioned your concerns in proceeding with a relationship. She seemed…favorably disposed to your role in ‘emotionally supporting’ me.

“I’m happy to do that.”

It was amazing that Greg managed to express his emotions about Mycroft’s emotions. Mycroft debated admitting to himself that he even had emotions. He decided to table the matter. He cleared his throat. 

“How was your game?” 

“Good, thanks. Friendly game. At least I only fell on my arse once. “

Mycroft took the plunge.

“I believe it was twice.”

“That second time was after the ref blew the whistle, so it doesn’t count, and wait, how did you know, and Jesus, you bloody watched the thing didn’t you, and, in fact, you are -” Greg put out his cigarette, and walked toward the CCTV camera and waved, with a cheeky grin.

Mycroft coughed.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t know whether to be scared, flattered, relieved you picked a game we won, or impressed that you managed to get access to Lambeth Council CCTV feed from Whitehall. A request like that would take us days.” He hesitated. “I think flattered is winning at the moment.”

“I’m merely indulging a taste for football,” said Mycroft recklessly. 

“Is that so? What’s the difference between the Championship League and the Premier League?”

“Er..alright, perhaps indulging my taste for a particular football player. Greg, would you like to have dinner?” It wasn’t an impulse, Mycroft realized, because in the back of his mind, this had been his intention all along.

“Yeah, that would be nice. I don’t really know what my schedule looks like this week...”

“I mean now. I could pick you up at your place, so you’ll have a chance to change. We needn’t go anyplace fussy.”

“Yeah…yeah, alright. Can you give me 45 minutes?”

“Of course.”

Mycroft scrolled through his email in the car on the way to Greg’s. He saw a weather report for Wales, and for a moment, he was transported back to Sherrinford. This time, instead of shuddering, he thought about his sister and her care in more clinical terms. 

He had done his best to assemble a team. He had been in touch at intervals, had made staffing adjustments. In the end, it hadn’t been enough. Perhaps Shireen had been correct in suggesting that his sister’s case was too complex to be managed by one person. But shouldn’t he have seen that? Again, Shireen had noted that he was probably too close to the situation. Damn. Did his life really need another woman who was always right? At least he had the PM to counteract that. She seemed to put every foot wrong, despite the daring nature of her shoes.

At any rate, he was not so damaged that Greg was unwilling to spend time with him. Mycroft had selected a nearby gastropub. Greg would be comfortable, and the food would be to an acceptable standard. He wanted to give Greg the sort of companionable evening his teammates were having: a decent meal with someone who appreciated them. He wondered if he was up to the task. He would do his best; he just no longer knew, in general or in particular, whether that was good enough. Perhaps the best thing to do was to emulate Greg, who always knew how to ease people’s minds.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg found himself whistling in the shower and, and even chanced singing a few bars of “Train in Vain.” He had to admit, he was feeling cheerful at the prospect of seeing Mycroft in some context other than an interrogation. Plus, the idea that Mycroft’s therapist saw him as a positive presence for Mycroft was about the best news he could have expected. He had really been feeling a bit adrift. He knew he wanted something more in the way of a relationship, but he was walking a fine line, trying not to apply any pressure. The fact that Mycroft was, well really, almost charging ahead with therapy was a bit awe-inspiring. Greg was beginning to think that a future for the two of them wasn’t just a pipe dream. 

There was a lot that still wasn’t clear, though. Mycroft liked him, that was at least clear, and it made Greg’s head spin. He’d never dated a genius before. What though, did that mean? Did Mycroft see relationships the way he did? Would either of them find the time?

He didn’t mind that Mycroft had watched his game. He was a bit floored, actually. It was certainly more than Jennifer had done in 16 years of marriage. Truth be told, after today’s game, he had really been feeling the weight of everyone else’s domestic bliss. Having tasted what spending time with someone compatible could be like, he was loathe to go back to a lager, chicken surprise, and a Strictly Come Dancing episode. Not without a pack of cigarettes anyway. 

Mycroft texted him on arriving, and Greg ran down the stairs of his building. He had no idea where they were going. He probably would have been okay with a Nando’s or a chip van. The thought of Mycroft in a Nando’s, asking whether the wings were free range, almost made him laugh out loud. He hopped into the waiting car, with a grin. 

“Thanks for the invitation.”

“I am glad you could make it.”

“Little else on, after a game.”

“No repairing to a pub?”

“You occasionally watch adverts on telly, I see. No, when I was younger we did, but the older folks start to pair off and usually go out with the significant others.”

“Did you and your ex-wife…”

“No, she wasn’t much of a football enthusiast.” Although she was enthusiastic enough for the bloke that taught it at the school where she worked. “Do you do any sports, besides running?”

“The odd bit of fencing.” If Mycroft said ‘the odd bit’, he was probably quite good.

“Did your parents have a teacher come in?” 

Mycroft laughed.

“We weren’t quite that Jane Austen,” he said. “My parents also didn’t really think of me as a potential athlete. I was rather overweight as a child. It was in boarding school that one of my teachers suggested that I begin fencing. It did appeal to my sense of the romantic. That, plus a well-timed growth spurt, meant that I was somewhat slimmer in my last two years. I also fenced at university.”

“How old were you when you went to boarding school?”

“Thirteen.”

“Did you miss home?”

“I missed Sherlock. My attempts to connect with students my own age were not successful. After the debacle with Eurus, though, I was surprised by how mundane boarding school was.”

Mycroft hadn’t mentioned his parents, Greg noted. 

“No bullying then?”

“I wouldn't say none. I was overweight and socially awkward. However, my eventual height and the fact that I could deduce exactly what rules another boy had broken in the last 24 hours prevented me from being quite the target I might have been. I made it clear that I had information, reams of it, in fact, but that I did not intend to use it, unless provoked.” Mycroft paused. “Rather like what I do for a living now, actually. The same techniques work quite well on the smaller countries. Ah, we’ve arrived.”

The driver pulled the car over to the curb. Greg was surprised to see that they were in front of a gastropub. 

“Not your usual haunt.” 

“I thought perhaps somewhere casual. I understand that they have a couple of quieter rooms upstairs.”

“One of these places that used to be a grand house?”

“At one time, I believe. Also a boarding house, and, around the turn of the 20th century, a brothel.”

“All done with, I hope. Hate it when I have to make an arrest before pudding.”

Mycroft merely smiled as the host showed them upstairs to a room with three tables, one of which was occupied by two women. A gas fire pretended to crackle in a small fireplace. Greg was a bit dumbfounded. It wasn’t that this was such a posh place; most people celebrating, say, a milestone birthday, would pick someplace a bit more formal, the sort of place he usually imagined Mycroft eating, where a meal involved a complicated sauce and was followed by a snifter of cognac. Really, what shocked Greg was the fact that this place was just about perfect for him: casual, with attention to the comfort of the diners, equal attention to the food, and, from the look of it, a nice selection of beverages. Mycroft also didn’t seem to have eaten here before. 

Greg picked up a menu, decided he felt hungry enough for steak, but would be an adult and skip the chips in favor of spinach. When the waiter returned, Mycroft ordered some sort of roast chicken.

“Wine for the table?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“If you’d rather have beer…”

“Nah, I trust you to choose something good.”

Greg began to feel very relaxed in the comfortable chairs with their situation near the fire. More so when the wine and food arrived. Mycroft had somehow picked something that paired well with both chicken and steak. About halfway through, after two glasses of wine, Greg stuck a toe in the water.

“You and your therapist, you talked about emotional support today, then?

“Yes,” Mycroft hesitated over a bite of potato, “She wants me to make a list of people that have supported me. It’s not long.”

“I’m…glad I’m on it. I’d like to stay on it. Are the rest family?”

“Just one uncle, the rest teachers.”

“That your Uncle Rudy?”

“Yes.”

“But not your parents.” 

Mycroft silently took a swallow of wine. .

“As I have mentioned, my family probably wouldn’t be considered supportive. Knowing Sherlock as you do, that shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“I suppose not. But your teachers, you say? Also not surprising. You must have been a model student. Although, I suppose some of them didn’t like the fact that you were more clever than they were.”

Here, Mycroft laughed. 

“Indeed not. I learned at an early age to hide that fact, and then to reveal it subtly, when they began to lead the other students astray in a way that might adversely affect exam results.” He looked pensive. “It’s a skill that’s come in handy on those days when I have to convince the French president that something was his idea.”

Greg laughed, but he could see how having to watch his every word with fellow students and teachers alike had colored Mycroft’s life. Like those training seminars he took on children of addicts. Hypervigilance, they called it. Mycroft was continuing.

“Who would be the people who have supported you?”

Greg was surprised by the question. He thought a bit.

“Well, I suppose my parents. I think my father had initially hoped one of us would take over the shop, but by the time we were in secondary, he could tell that probably wasn’t on. He had a lot of respect for the police, anyway. My mum is generally an enthusiastic and active person, so she got behind whatever we did, as long as we were doing something.” Greg paused. “I - God, I’ve never told anyone this- I think I might be the least favorite child. My brother and Mum always had something special, and my sister was their little girl, plus she’s the only one with kids. For all that, though, I never doubted that they were in my corner.” Where had that come from, he wondered. That thought had been in the back of his mind since he was in short trousers, but he’d never voiced it. He decided to continue. 

“My first sergeant, as well. He really took me under his wing. He is still the most ethical copper I’ve ever known. I was lucky to have had him to show me the ropes.”

Mycroft coughed.

“Your, ah, ex wife was not -”

“Well, truth be told, no. I mean, when I married her, she seemed steady, like me. I thought we could make a go of it. I admired her work, with the kids and all. It turned out though, that when we got home from work, she had nothing left over to share with me. She sort of retreated into herself. I started working longer hours. She never showed much interest in my job or my other interests.”

“Like football?”

“Like football, although,” Greg smiled, “you still haven’t convinced me you know what a red card is.”

“Good lord, man, we career civil servants show them to Boris Johnson and David Davis almost daily, for all the good it does us.”

“You don’t support a team, though?”

“So many...Must one choose?”

Good lord, thought Greg, thought Greg, that may be as close to flirtatious banter as Mycroft had ever come.

“One must, as long as one chooses Arsenal.”

The rest of the evening passed companionably. Greg felt himself relax more and more, as they ate, drank wine, and grew warm before the fire. It was a good thing that Mycroft’s driver was able to pull up in front of the restaurant, since they really just poured themselves into the backseat in a heap.

When Greg sat up to do his seatbelt, he saw Mycroft looking at him intently. In an uncharacteristically impulsive move, Mycroft reached for Greg, who could not believe that they were suddenly making out like teenagers in the back of a car. They pulled up to Greg’s place..

“You know if I invite you up - “

“You’d never get me back out again until, well, certain needs had been met.”

“Right. And I’m meant to be giving you space.” He stopped. “Seriously, Mycroft, thanks for a really nice evening, on a night when I really needed a nice evening.”

Mycroft nodded, with a slight smile. Something was eating at him.

“Greg, do you think your parents would accept or would have accepted your taste in, that is to say, the fact that you are attracted to –“

“Blokes?” Greg smiled, and then sighed. “Mum, probably. Dad, God rest him, probably not. He always felt a bit on the back foot, since his parents were foreign. He felt as if he had to out-convention the conventional. He always managed to keep up with the latest trends in his business, but I don’t think he would have dealt with it well, me straying outside the run of the mill.”

“Does it bother you, thinking you might have been a disappointment, or not having been able to share this side of yourself with him?”

Greg thought a moment. No, he could say, but who was he kidding? He would have liked both of his parents to accept his choice of partners whoever they may be. (God knew, they were all too aware of his brother-in-law’s shortcomings.) Yes, he could say, but when else had his dad ever let him down? 

“I think it has to do with letting go of expectations. My ex-wife and I saw a therapist, and she said this was the biggest problem she saw in marriages, that couples were expecting to be everything to each other.”

“Was that the biggest problem in YOUR marriage?”

“At the end, I would have been happy to have been anything to Jennifer. Okay, well, anyway, I think, though, that I have to do that with my parents. I accept that Dad wasn’t perfect, that he was a prisoner of his own narrow thinking. Most importantly, I know it isn’t a reflection on me.,., or any choice of partner I’d make,” he said carefully. 

Greg could almost see the lightbulb going on in Mycroft’s head. 

“Now you wait,” he continued. “When all of this is over, we’ll take my mum out for a nice cream tea. She’ll be at her most receptive. She’ll tell you all about the gossip down at the Ilford Garden Club. You can follow my example, and nod knowingly at the correct intervals. Once you’ve learned that, you’ll be able to handle almost any civilian.” Mycroft gave the faintest hint of a smile. Greg smiled cheekily back. “I’ll try to get her to lay off the details of Teresa’s bunion operation.” At Mycroft’s look of horror, he continued “We’ll think of that as advanced coursework.” 

Mycroft actually guffawed, and then grew quiet.

“You aren’t joking, are you?”

“Not in the least.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s cheek fondly, and ran inside his flat. 

Greg passed Sunday trying to bring his flat into a state that wouldn’t catch the attention of the local health authorities. There was at least one container at the back of his fridge that he was afraid to open, despite having worked murders for 10 years. Gravy, probably.

Three loads of laundry, two dust cloths, and a hoovering later, things looked good. He went for a run and a coffee. He thought about Mycroft. Would it be nice to pass a Sunday like this with him? Yes, although he wouldn’t take bets on Mycroft’s hoovering skills. He must have people for that. Although, he didn’t have people to do the shopping. Surely when he was at university, he’d had to clean up after himself? Or did they have cleaners at Oxbridge? 

Greg was still marveling at having shagged himself onto the set of Brideshead Revisited, when he arrived at work on Monday.

His email pinged at nine. An address for RAF Transit. Cardiff, sure enough, but a P.O. Box.

Another ping at half past one. The registered agent for RAF Transit was one John Robinson. God, that was a name you gave at a dodgy hotel that charged by the hour. He checked the directory. 26 John Robinson’s in Cardiff alone. Damn. He went out and got a coffee, cream, no sugar, and an extra fancy espresso beverage, with caramel and a 14 syllable Italian name. He sidled up to the desk closest to his office door.

“Sal, I have a bit of a job for you.” She looked at the hand-crafted caramel swirls and then back at his very best Mum-I-had-a-go-at-the-biscuit-tin look, and sighed. 

There was little else on RAF Transit on official records. Inland Revenue had nothing on them, but Greg had learned the hard way that there were a lot of vaguely legal ways to bury earnings from a small business. Sal poked her head in his office door.

“So I spoke to the first 19 John Robinsons. They all denied any connection, but if they were up to something dodgy, they would say that, wouldn’t they?”

“Right, well, that’s one step closer to knowing whether it’s a legit business or not.”

Two frustrating days later, they had little more information. Greg had scoured every database he could get to easily, and had filled out paperwork for searches in a few others. No RAF Transit, so far, and certainly no links to a John Robinson.

He had been on the verge of requesting formal surveillance for Geoffrey Wilson several times. Was he really the innocent they thought, and this tenuous connection to Evans was just a fluke? Or was he still involved in doing something on Eurus’ behalf, and all of these opinions on sandwiches were just some kind of elaborate ruse. Hard to believe the latter.

In the meantime, they had two other cases. Sal was working on a bank heist. Who robbed banks anymore? For that matter, what bank had such crap security procedures that they allowed themselves to be robbed? Wasn’t that just on telly?

“Got a couple of good leads, Boss.” Sally had told him in the break room, after pointedly nicking his tea. Alright then, it was only Lipton. “Checked out rented garages in the area, with the idea that they needed to stash their gear and then the loot. Ads posted online from a few months ago.”

“Where did you get those?”

“Seb in IT.”

“Dishy Seb?”

Sally looked at him in a mix of horror and embarrassment .

“Listen to you,” she said quickly, “You’re not meant to be noticing subordinates. Especially now that you’re practically a kept man”

“No indeed. Although,” said Greg with a grin, “you appear to have noticed him. And I’m keeping myself, thanks. Not above accepting the odd dinner out, of course.”

“Anyplace nice? And did you order the lobster?”

“Oi, don’t you have some garages to sweet talk your way into?”

“Right, so a bit of action then. I understand, not a kiss and tell lad.”

“Sergeant Donovan is not a team player, is insubordinate, and...”

She flashed him a grin as she left.

“Sal, nice work,” he called after her.

Greg went back to his needle in a haystack database requests. He stopped abruptly. Sal was not thinking like a pursuer. She was thinking like a criminal, and now, she was one step closer to catching them. In fact, Greg thought, hadn’t he taught her that in their early days of working together? He was so distracted that he wasn’t taking his own advice.

The next step was for Greg to tackle the problem head on. He hadn’t let himself go down this path, he realized, because he had been convinced, in the back of his mind, that he couldn’t think like Eurus Holmes. That only a Holmes could explain a Holmes, so Mycroft would get this. That Lestrade just had to nudge, gather information. He had to admit that during his phone call to Mycroft last night, he had mentioned the John Robinson angle, secretly hoping that Mycroft would work his usual magic.

That kind of thinking wasn’t really getting them anywhere. So, he wasn’t a once in a generation genius, like Eurus Holmes. He wasn’t like Mycroft or Sherlock. He could, though, put himself in her place.

What had Mycroft said? He had given her a bit of internet access. So not a regular thing, then. She had talked to the staff, but mostly to convince them of things. She had needed money, medical supplies. They had identified the dupes who had provided those. She had also needed transport...and a gun. 

First things first. Transport. He called up the map view of the island housing Sherrinford. It was listed as a military base. Greg chuckled. This made it look both foreboding and boring to the general public, conjuring up images of men in olive drab practicing endless marching drills. Nice move on Mycroft s part. He was briefly concerned about Mycroft’s ability to control both Google Earth AND Wikipedia, but decided that if someone had to exercise a monopoly over the planet’s information, who better?

Greg couldn’t see shots of the island, nor could he see shots of the dock where the employees came and went from the island, either by boat or by helicopter. He knew well enough where it was though. He rotated his vantage point. Now, it was as if he were looking from the employee docking area onto part of the waterfront in the town of Barry across from Sherrinford. A small marina with an array of boats stood there. There was a series of small buildings, each with a low slung door, perpetually open during the day. They had signs above them. Greg zoomed in. A number offered boats for hire. A starting point, anyway. Greg sighed. Another trip to Wales was clearly in his future.

Three packets of prawn crisps and two truly shocking coffees later, Greg was pulling into a parking lot on the waterfront. He had convinced the motor pool to loan him a panel van with an old toolbox full of odds and ends in the back. He wore a safety yellow vest, a hard hat, and a pair of his brother-in-law’s old work boots. Completing the ensemble was a pair of reading glasses from Boots, glasses that, to his chagrin, made it easier to see the small numbers on his phone. Well, it comes to us all in the end. Greg parked the van and got out. His plan was simple, but it might work. 

Carrying the box of tools, Greg feigned work at one of the mysterious metal junction boxes sticking out of the ground as if it were growing out of the parking lot. The open doors meant that no one could see that he was doing fuck all in there. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking at – electrics, landlines for phones? He glanced at the open doors to the boat hire businesses on the waterfront. He could probably give it a go now. He walked into one. Just as he had hoped, they had a café set up next to their ticket counter. He bought a coffee with his credit card. God, worse than the service area coffee, which he wouldn’t have believed possible. Down the row he went. A couple of postcards at one, another packet of crisps at the next. At one, he actually had to buy a boat cruise ticket. (Right, so he’d donate it to the Cardiff nick's Christmas Raffle.) These would all be entries on his credit card statement. With luck, he’d know in a few days whether one of these was RAF Transit.

A seagull screeched overhead. Greg shivered a bit in the winter cold. He had reached the last building. He was very near the Sherrinford employee dock. It was deserted, but shift change would probably be in another hour or so. He looked over at the distant rock offshore that housed Sherrinford. The prison. Her prison. He had a vision of her, sitting in her cell, catatonic. He could see the windows of the facility though. So people in there could see him, in theory, with a really powerful telescope. She had probably seen this out of the way block of boat hire places at some point. A hospitalization, when she was initially transported maybe. Maybe, the first time she had wangled her way off island, she had taken an employee boat, and then she had seen the set up here. Maybe she had picked one of these places for her regular off island jaunts. Maybe she - . 

The gull screeched again, pulling Greg out of his reverie. He glanced to his left. There was a small path leading down a small side road, still adjacent to the marina, but hidden from the main street. Greg walked down and saw another low building. It looked deserted, but the door was larger and the space more cavernous. On the front of the building was painted, in sloppy writing, the words “For Hire”. Two cars and a half dozen motorcycles stood haphazardly in front of the building, with more of each inside. Inside, on the back wall was a picture of a modern looking boat. A set of hire rates was hand printed in marker below. Next to the picture of the boat, was another picture, also poster sized. It was in black and white, and featured two young men wearing pilots’ uniforms and standing in front of a Spitfire. RAF. Bingo.

Greg knew, instinctively, that he shouldn’t be seen, although he wasn’t sure quite why. He walked quickly out of the side street, his brimmed hard hat pulled down low. Getting into the van, he drove. And drove. He didn’t stop until he was halfway to London. Why had he known the proprietor of that boat hire was bad news? Sure, he – was it even a he? – was a known associate of Eurus Holmes, but Greg had confronted two of them so far and lived to tell. 

The café in the motor services area was particularly terrifying. He hadn’t seen an employee wearing a hairnet in donkey’s years. When the management got that showy about hygiene, you knew they were hiding something. Greg selected tea, since that was boiled, and went back out and leaned on the front fender of the van. He looked over his shoulder, nervy as a bridegroom. He lit a cigarette. After a few draws, he tossed it on the ground and took out his phone.

“Yeah, hi. It’s just me. I’ve had what I think is a development, yeah. No, I mean, it could wait until morning, I suppose. I, ah, I wanted to hear your voice.”


	14. Chapter 14

It was a short list that he handed to her. People who had been emotionally supportive of him throughout his lifetime. She had just said, “Tell me about them,” and so he had. At length. It had just sort of spilled out.

His political economy master in boarding school, Mr. MacKenzie. The other teachers at his school had of course recognized Mycroft’s intellect. Indeed, they hadn’t been able to devise an assignment to challenge him. A student like Mycroft was a gift to them, though: likely to achieve sterling results on university entrance exams with little enough effort on their parts. Mr. MacKenzie, though, had recognized that Mycroft was something special, but also understood that he was a teenager. He had personally entered one of Mycroft’s essays in a national competition. He had encouraged Mycroft to take up fencing, which earned him a bit of cachet at the school. Too, Mr. MacKenzie had been at court during his army days. His duties were largely ceremonial, but he had met a few power players, and was able to share tales with Mycroft that enabled his boyhood self to begin to realize that there was a world of emotion and convention that he would have to master. Mycroft wondered whether he would have made it through his Cambridge interview without Mr. MacKenzie’s insight.

Then there was Uncle Rudy. Mycroft would probably wonder until he died whether Uncle Rudy’s interest in him was completely disinterested, or whether his ultimate aim was to have a protégé to carry on much of his work. In many ways, it was no matter. Mycroft’s role in government had surpassed Uncle Rudy’s; the duties would have been his anyway. His uncle had been one of the few in the family to take an interest in Mycroft; he was the one who showed up at Mycroft’s boarding school on Sunday afternoons to take him to a cream tea or wandering around to odd village flea markets. He didn’t care much about Mycroft’s weight. 

“It will probably come off, then, lad, when you’ve some control over your own life.” Then too, he had also realized that Mycroft was gay, and hadn’t cared about that either, although he had warned Mycroft, seriously and with good cause, of the need for discretion. Uncle Rudy himself had of course enjoyed transvestitism, although he also enjoyed the ladies. Mycroft had initially wondered whether the latter quality had been an act, but the packet of letters written to the very married Lady Caroline Asquith that Mycroft had found amongst his bequeathed possessions had been far too hidden and far too heartfelt. 

His tutor, Dr. Pines, at Corpus Christi College had been very encouraging. He had seen Mycroft’s brilliance and had moved him into a more advanced tutorial group. By Mycroft’s second year, Dr. Pines had introduced him to a group of post graduate students. They had become Mycroft’s peers during the rest of his university career, even including him on pub nights. His first semi-romantic fumblings had been with a serious, introverted member of that group. Neither of them had much idea what they were doing, nor were they really either of them cut out for anything truly reciprocal or long term at that point. Their mutual identity as unassuming anoraks, however, meant that the relationship was quite safe for both of them. He rather suspected that Dr. Pines knew he was “setting Mycroft up”.

Then there was Greg. He wasn’t sure where to begin, so he started chronologically. The man who first consulted the consulting detective. The man who, after several stilted afternoon tea invitations, eventually became Mycroft’s insurance policy in places like Baskerville. The man who dropped everything to search for Mycroft’s brother, over and over. Sherlock’s only non-Watson visitor in hospital. Middle child. Jogger. Reliable mid-fielder (Greg would want that on his headstone.). Cuckolded ex-husband. The person who looked after him. The only person on record to have encouraged him to consume carbohydrates. His sometime lover, but what now? Maybe, his best friend.

What did they all have in common? They appreciated his mind, but they also saw him as a person. 

When he had finished, he was silent. In fact, he was rather shocked at some of his own revelations and conclusions. Shireen looked at him impassively.

“Your parents aren’t on the list. You’ve indicated that your relationship with them is difficult.”

“Yes.” She waited. He sighed. She would wait forever. Damnit, she had probably taken a class in it at university. “I am not certain what you wish to know. My parents never quite understood me. I was too clever for my father, and too detached for my mother. After a few awkward years as an only child, Sherlock and Eurus arrived in rapid succession. They were a sufficient distraction. For the all of us, I should add.”

“You did a lot of childcare.” 

“I would describe it more as supervision and mentoring. I note you are smiling, but I assure you, the terms are apt. There were always other adults about: a nanny, a parent, a housekeeper, Uncle Rudy. But Sherlock and Eurus came to me for guidance and help in interpreting the world around them.”

“That sounds like parenting.”

“I’m not sure I can comment on that. I believe that most parents eventually see their children grow up and leave home. My brother, on the other hand…”

“…does seem a bit petulant for someone so bright. But I only know him from the papers. Do you have thoughts on your parents? Do you resent them for their lack of support?”

“I am perhaps annoyed by it. It has been inconvenient. But I have perhaps been grievously disappointing as a son.”

“How so?”

“I have always been unable to appreciate their concerns and interests. They seemed so mundane.” He hesitated. “But I have apparently spent my life wounding them horribly without knowing that was what I was doing.”

“How so?”

“By letting them think my sister, their child, was dead.” 

At this point Shireen had to refer back to her notes. Mycroft sighed, but it was a gesture of resignation. The fact that people had to take notes on his family had become a matter of course. He knew that he would have died of boredom if he had been raised by an accountant and an art teacher in a split level in Hertfordshire, but there were days when he longed for it to have been so.

“Again, your uncle was the first to make this decision.”

“I could have told them at any time, but I chose not to.”

“Why?”

“I thought I was being kind.”

“If you had told them, would they have been able to parent your sister more effectively than you did?”

Mycroft had never considered this.

“I had never asked myself that question, but I rather think not.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t worse off, then.”

“But my parents…”

“Were spared the anguish, but perhaps they would prefer not to have been, is that what you think?”

“Yes. It is certainly what they think.”

She bit her lip.

“I don’t know what I would have done either, in your place. I think that brings us back to the original issue.”

“That I should not have made the choice. It should never have been mine to make.”

She smiled. Lord, she was easy to please.

“And what about their role as parents to you?”

“They haven’t really performed it in the conventional sense. Greg has – “ Mycroft stopped here.

“You’ve spoken to him about them?”

And she was writing again. Gah!

“Yes. He, ah, suggested that I needed to let go of my expectations for them. To stop expecting them to be what they could not.”

“It strikes me that perhaps you had already done that, starting in childhood.”

“I – I don’t quite see.”

“I once read a study about boys who grow up in homes without fathers. Everyone expects them to turn out badly because they lack father figures, but, you know, most people generally turn into functional adults. Father figures are important to boys, so they generally seek them out wherever they can find them. You’ve done that. You’ve found people to give you what your parents couldn’t.”

Mycroft was silent, pondering.

“What about Greg’s advice?” she continued. “Do you think it’s sound?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“How will you use it going forward?”

“I-I don’t know.”

She smiled

“It’s a perfectly fine answer. Let’s see how you do with that over the next week.”

When Mycroft stepped outside the office, in a non-descript medical building, for the first time, he didn’t feel as if he needed an intravenous nicotine drip. 

A more pressing matter awaited him when he returned to his office. Greg’s phone call last night had sounded a bit desperate, and Mycroft was officially worried about someone other than Sherlock. It was particularly worrying, as Mycroft had had a relatively flirtatious phone conversation with Greg the previous night. The last time anyone had asked Mycroft what he was wearing had been a panicked visit from the (new money) boy in the neighboring room in his university residence hall just before the freshers’ tea. 

Greg had sounded off, on edge, jumpy. The worst thing was that he knew he was off, but really didn’t understand why. Mycroft had listened to his description of the boat rental place, the photos. He had promised to get on it. This could be an important breakthrough. 

Mycroft had phoned ahead to ask for the third screen on the computer to be activated. Bloody nuisance, all of the equipment, but time was of the essence. He had called up all of the CCTV footage from anywhere on the Barry marina. He finally found what he thought was Greg’s little hole in the wall establishment. There was some footage of the entrance to the pathway.  
The angle was poor, since the shop didn’t actually front onto a road, or anything that anyone cared about protecting with any form of surveillance. Only three people had ventured down it at all last Friday. He compared the grainy still close-ups with another set of photos, each attached to a file on his desk.

Mycroft had simply been in a fog, he realized, for weeks now. He felt slow, dim, unable to make the connections. Was this how ordinary people spent every day? He shuddered. When he had realized that his sister had had a gun, why had he not gone straight to the source? 

A small operation, you’d need, if you were just one person seeking a gun. In the UK, these things would be trafficked out of Marseilles. Impossible to search every small boat, every toilet tank on every ferry crossing the channel a million times a day. Of course, nothing really escaped the government, these days. They had all of the information they needed; they just didn’t have the manpower to scrutinize it all. 

Britain’s coastline, long, and full of nooks and coves, was impossible to police completely. Anthea had discovered that it was possible to spot some “frequent fliers”, whether via CCTV or credit cards used in alternating locations in France and the UK. The latter group, of course were likely to be legitimate businesses. She had cross checked these with boat registrations. Mycroft had before him dossiers on a handful of possibles, with license photos.

The CCTV images from the Barry marina were not the best quality, but they seemed to match the picture in one of the folders. Edward Meeker. Mycroft flipped through the files. Trips to France were irregularly timed, but averaged to about once per quarter. The French stops were all in a small town outside of Calais, and the CCTV suggested that the loads contained fresh seafood. 

Mycroft was thoughtful. People who used guns tended to be desperate, depressed, or paranoid. People who sold them tended to be quite organized, if devoid of morals. Somewhere along the supply chain, the latter group gave way to the former. For middlemen, it was sometimes hard to guess which tendencies they displayed. 

Mycroft thumbed the folder. Edward Meeker was ex-military, but didn’t seem to have served a full tour of duty. That never boded well. No notations in the folder as to why, which suggested that whatever he had done had also implicated someone quite senior. 

He gave the name back to Anthea. She was still smarting from the fact that the connection between Evans and Wilson had been spotted by Donovan in Greg’s shop. The sergeant had been looking in the more pedestrian databases, of course. Anthea would not make the same mistake twice. It wasn’t really her mistake to begin with, though. She had held back, noting Mycroft’s hesitancy at using all of the resources at his disposal to investigate a family related matter. He had clarified things for her: the acts of aggression against Greg seemed to justify bringing all of their assets to bear. 

With that matter temporarily in hand, Mycroft turned his attention to the next day. The family would be visiting her, and Mycroft needed to be prepared. Interestingly, not for Eurus. He observed rather than interacted with her these days. It was the rest of the family that would require some thought.

Mycroft awoke at his usual early hour, but lay supine for a while. He thought of the plan he had agreed to with his therapist. He remembered Greg’s advice. He remembered that Greg thought him worthy of his time, even if his family’s regard was absent. He remembered too, though, Greg’s shaken voice the last time they had spoken. He remembered that he had been the one for whom Greg had reached out. For all of the concern that he had to be careful that he wasn’t reaching out to Greg out of a passing desperation, Mycroft was seeing a different sort of pattern. He and Greg were working the case, together, and rather well. It went beyond the professional, though. Greg called him regularly, had turned to Mycroft in his times of need. Too, Mycroft was able to offer something to Greg, something beyond some excess funding from one of the myriad family trusts. And unlike Sherlock, or his parents, Greg accepted what he had to offer. 

Mycroft shook himself from his reverie. It was time to face the real world. He showered, dressed, and tied his tie, as he had done thousands of times in this particular bedroom mirror. He had mulled over what his expectations should be for his parents, if they couldn’t be expected to behave as parents. His conversation with Rosamund had gone so well, that he thought he might put the technique to good use elsewhere.

He had eventually decided to treat his parents as if they were the Princess Royal and Commander Laurence. He had initially planned to try and envision them as John and Norma Major, but the latter were a perfectly innocuous couple who tended to observe the niceties. He had briefly considered Penelope Keith, but had only met the husband the once. The Beckhams, too, he had considered briefly, but she was too quiet and he too personable. No, a couple where the wife was punctual, prickly, and prone to the occasional outburst, with a silent husband, was the best choice. They were also a couple that he knew slightly, and who owed him nothing whatsoever. 

How Princess Anne had convinced not one, but two, men to marry her was a source of continual speculation to many in his circle, but really, she had chosen quite well: military officers, but not quite at the top of the chain of command. A position where they had to supervise a decent-sized household staff, but had to answer to one rather grumpy person, who likely addressed them in the same tones as their respective nannies had, was probably quite comfortable and familiar to both men. 

Mycroft’s car took him to a helipad outside Slough, where another car had deposited his parents and a slightly disgruntled cab driver was pulling away from Sherlock. 

“I tried to tell him that his fiancé was probably going to cut him loose, despite all of his effort at self –improvement via accounting courses and yoga. I assured him it wasn’t his fault; she’s clearly the sort of person who would marry Bill Gates, only to berate him about his golf scores.”

“The truth can be hard, but I’m quite pleased you did the right thing,“ said Mycroft with an indulgent smile. Sherlock looked at him sharply.

“You have chosen to address me as if I were a member of One Direction. Why?”

He hadn’t imagined that Sherlock would cotton on so quickly, nor that he had ever heard of One Direction. Indeed, if certain permissions hadn’t been necessary for the Olympics, neither would Mycroft. 

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Ah, good afternoon, Mummy, Father. I hope your trip here went well.”

“The traffic was simply hellacious.”

“SO sorry to hear that. I trust the weather has been tolerable in Gloucestershire?”

“Well enough, yes,” said his father, rather obliquely. They entered the helicopter. On the way to Sherrinford, Mycroft said little. When his parents spoke about their upcoming trip to Tennessee, he smiled indulgently, much as he had with a certain other couple when talk turned to prized show jumpers. When his parents asked questions about Eurus, Mycroft let Sherlock answer, tutting appropriately when Sherlock indicated that she was still catatonic. 

They entered the facility at Sherrinford. Mycroft knew few of the staff by name these days. He and his parents entered the observation area. They sat on government issue chairs, as Sherlock entered the hallway outside of their sister’s cell. He played. Eurus listened, but she didn’t stir. They left. Mycroft felt a pang of unbearable sadness. He wondered if this was what his parents had felt; not for the first time, he felt the waste that his sister represented. All of that potential, gone. All of his parents hopes and dreams for her, unfulfilled. All of the resources, manpower, used to hold her in prison could probably have been better spent elsewhere. He stopped. These were definitely expectations. 

He went to the employee restroom on the outer corridor. Removing a pair of binoculars from his bag, he peered out the window toward the docks. He couldn’t quite see Meeker’s storefront from here. No matter.

“Peeping Toms generally look in through windows, not out of them,”

“Just checking the weather.”

“No, you are not.”

Mycroft smiled.

“Would you like a turn?” It was, after all, something he certainly would have said to a member of a boy band whose popularity was on the wane. Sherlock took the binoculars and trained them on the same place on which Mycroft had focused.

“You are looking for her method of transport.”

Mycroft smiled, though Sherlock did not look up.

“She did not use any of these.”

“Indeed not.”

“But you know which one she did use.”

“Shall we say a promising lead.”

Sherlock turned to him.

“You are fairly certain, though.”

Mycroft smiled again.

“You have not seen him today.”

“No.” 

Sherlock regarded him thoughtfully.

“But you have spoken quite recently.”

“Mmm. And how is John?”

“He said, with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.” For some reason, Sherlock was now aiming the binoculars at his shoes.” John is...well. Thank you. And surprisingly resistant to the idea of bilingual education.”

“Should I set up some interviews with French nannies?”

“Are you forgetting the ones that I drove off?” He smiled with a kind of pride

“These would be from an approved list available to families employed by the services. They are skilled in hand to hand combat, and made of rather sterner stuff than Mlle Harcourt. To be fair, her previous client had been the rather docile only daughter of a family of horse trainers down the road. She wasn’t expecting a boy who would attempt to use her parfum mister as a flame thrower.”

“You could have warned her.”

“In her familial dialect, too, but where would have been the fun in that?” Sherlock was eying him in disbelief. “Perhaps we should return to Mummy and Father.”

“By the way, why are you talking to them as if they were Anne and Tim?”

The trip back was surprisingly pleasant. His polite but detached attitude was beginning to affect his parents. His mother began at one point to complain that the helicopter was taking a roundabout route. He smiled distantly, noted that they needed to detour around some foul weather, and went back to making a few notes for an upcoming meeting. She didn’t address him again for the rest of the trip

It was quite late, by the standards of regular people, when he and Sherlock got back to London, but Mycroft stopped in at his office. Anthea was apparently pulling out all of the stops, and had a dossier compiled. He sat at his desk to read it.

Edward Meeker and Craig Evans apparently had shopped at the same Tesco. Further, Meeker had called in at the hospital where Evans worked to have the on duty physician see to a gash on his hand. Evans had not been the physician of record, nor had he been on duty. 

His phone chimed. Greg. Mycroft answered.

“How was the meeting with the wrinkles? Also, would you be nice enough not to point out how ironic it is for me to use that word?”

“Well enough, thank you, and you are a Senior Railcard, four dental implants, and two decades’ worth of complaining about imagined slights away from my parents in age.” Greg laughed, which Mycroft found very affecting. “I am finding that you were right. Facing them without expectations is making our interactions much easier.” 

“Your sister?”

“The same.”

“Ah. Any news on our other front, then?” Mycroft found it also strangely affecting that this investigation was a joint project, and that Greg had slipped into that so easily.

“Yes. Your man is Edward Meeker. He has been on our radar for a while for possible gun running. Strictly small time: one boat, also carries a load of fish as cover.” 

“That simplifies things, if the gun and transport are from the same place.”

“There are a number of possible connections between Meeker and Evans but I don’t know what to make of them. I think this may be an area where traditional police work may have an advantage.”

“Well, send it over. I’ll get Sal on it.” 

They were silent for a moment. Then, they both began speaking again at the same time.

“I -”

“I - “

“Oh, sorry.”

“Please continue.”

“Nothing, really. I’m just ready for this all to be over.”

Which all did he mean? The uncertainty about his sister’s network? This limbo they were in? Mycroft’s therapy?

“I would also like some resolution.”

“Would you be free for dinner Saturday?”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid there is a late evening meeting on farm subsidies. Perhaps Sunday? Can we verify the time then?”

“Sure.”

Mycroft heard the hopeful note in Greg’s voice. It all seemed so surreal, this other person who relied on him and didn’t resent it, this person who looked forward to spending time with him. 

“Goodnight, then.”


	15. Chapter 15

Greg hung up the phone. There were about six things going through his mind, which was normal when he was working a case, but rarely was there such a mix of his personal life with his investigation. Meeker. The name meant nothing. Small time, Mycroft had said. Like Wilson and Evans really. Another set of question marks.

It had been a relief to hear Mycroft’s voice again. It was most nights these days, although getting together had been difficult. When they did, Greg tried to hold back. Mycroft’s therapy was progressing nicely. Greg didn’t want to get ahead of himself and push things. He didn’t think they could go on as they were, though. They were both really starved for contact. Greg knew he was, and that snogging session in the back of Mycroft’s car had only worsened things. They had tried to do it all “the right way”, but this separation just didn’t feel right anymore. 

The next day was Friday, but it felt like a Monday. His team members were getting nowhere. Sal checked the dates on Evans’ and Meeker’s bank cards. They hadn’t been in the Tesco at the same time but once. Maybe that just meant that they were living in the same part of Cardiff, which they were, and which was public knowledge. Maybe Evans had been leaving Meeker secret messages under the second box of pasta from the left. 

By four, he made Roberts run down to the nick to check Evans’ visitors’ log. No one had visited except his brief. He had never even been called by anyone, and his only calls out had been to the tabloids. Probably trying to flog his story. Since Greg had heard nary a flutter from the Yard’s Public Relations Department, Evans’ efforts had probably been unsuccessful. Greg left his desk at eight, had a dyspeptic takeout meal in his pajamas, and tried to distract himself with a football bloopers video his nephews had texted him the link for. It worked, and he managed to get some sleep. 

The next morning was Saturday, and they had football practice. It was a relief to run around, do some passing drills, trade barbs about the PCs’ relative inexperience for barbs about his age, and fall on his arse a few times. Greg was passing out the water bottles, when he heard their best defender, Waters, a sergeant in Major Fraud, telling a couple of the younger players

“One of your best bets is to show up at the suspect’s house on a Saturday night. They are often not there, but you can then talk to the neighbors, in a way that gets back to them. It always unnerves ‘em. Then, if they’re there, there’s either something dodgy happening, or a family gathering. Nothing start ‘em panicking like the coppers walking in on either a major face to face or Mum and Dad’s fiftieth.”

Let it not be said that Greg Lestrade ignored good advice. He had actually used the technique himself, before his current assignment, back when the people he was chasing weren’t all murderers who had skipped town. So, for what seemed like the thousandth time, Greg headed west on the M4. A coffee from the hairnetted crew in the service area in hand, Greg noted that it was already dark as he wound his way through the streets of Gabalfa, a somewhat dodgier part of Cardiff than Evans’ hipster neighborhood near the university, but close enough to the relevant Tesco.

Greg pulled up at the address. He didn’t think anyone would be home, but after mulling it over, he put on his stab proof vest and slid a heavy torch into the sleeve of his coat. He was a bit befuddled for a moment. The address was 1451, but 1449 and 1453 were next to each other. He looked back across the street. All even numbers. 

He walked down the alley a bit. There was an additional roof in the back garden of 1449, and a side gate. The occupants of the main house had the telly turned up to 11. He walked quietly up to the side gate, and peered through the edge of the front window. An elderly woman was watching BBC-2. Her outside light had burned out, and she had no satellite dish, so she probably lived alone. (Right, so the Holmeses were starting to rub off on him.) The fact that she couldn’t hear would make her only too inviting as a landlady. Greg softly lifted the latch on the gate and made his way into the garden.

There was indeed an outbuilding. It looked to be all of one room. External wiring extended from the first floor of main house to a corner of the shed’s roof. That was at least five code violations and a tripled fire risk right there. The small building was dark. A mailbox on the door was labeled 1451 and spilled over with bills and magazines featuring boats and motorcycles. The door was actually ajar. Almost 30 years of experience had taught Greg to handle himself in any situation, but he found he had to stifle fear as he slid into the open door. He put his torch on the low setting. 

An IKEA bed discomfortingly like his own occupied one corner. The wall perpendicular held a sagging, fourth hand wardrobe. It was empty. Another corner held one of those all-in-one plastic preformed bathroom pods that were the norm in hotels that rented to people calling themselves John Robinson who presented no i.d. The kitchen was a hotplate and a mini-fridge. Greg opened it. Milk not yet expired. If Meeker had done a runner, he’d done it recently. He glanced in the bath. There were burn marks on the sink and tub. Greg looked more closely. They were larger than cigarette burns, and small piles of ash remained. The few curls of newspaper and leaves that hadn’t burned suggested that Meeker had just set small fires of random rubbish. In his bathroom.

Greg slid back out the door. Back outside the side gate were the rubbish bins. He pulled some gloves from his pocket, opened the lid and began to pull out bags. This was familiar territory. He’d done this with Sherlock, with Sally, with his former supervising sergeant, now retired to Ramsgate. He wondered whether he could do it someday with Mycroft. He laughed at the thought of Mycroft rolling up his French cuffs to paw through garbage. That led him to think about what they were doing the last time he had seen Mycroft removing his cuff links. He shook himself. Right then, business before pleasure, Greg. 

Greg decided that the bag with the denture adhesive was not Meeker’s. The next bag looked more promising. A carton of milk the same brand, empty books of matches, some crumpled paper. Greg uncrumpled it. The contents made his blood run cold. There were photos printed out on a regular office printer. At the library, maybe? There was a picture, a selfie really, of Eurus Holmes and a fellow that looked like the photo of Edward Meeker in the dossier that Mycroft had sent over. Same glasses, same sparse mustache, same thin face. There was also a picture of what looked like a dogfight. It was in a small village with wooden huts, and was clearly a still from YouTube. God. Fires and animal torture. Two of the unholy triad. Bad news, this Meeker bloke.

Greg hesitated. His entry into the small unit was an illegal search, but he hadn’t taken anything there. Courts took a more lenient attitude toward garbage, although he was on the property without permission. He sighed. He had to take the bag; tomorrow could be bin pickup day for this block. They could use it for reference in the investigation, but they’d need another way to connect this bloke to Eurus to keep any court proceedings airtight. Sometimes compromises were inevitable in this job. You had to make the best decision in the moment, and hope that circumstances proved it was for the best. That was why experience was so valuable in the force.

He called Mycroft before hitting the M4. He didn’t expect an answer, nor did he get one, but hoped Mycroft would check his messages before bed.

“It’s me. I’m at Meeker’s. I think he’s done a bunk. I’ve found a picture of him with your sister. Also, evidence that he sets fires and likes animal torture. Heading back now.”

Greg hung up the phone. Two awful coffees later, it was approaching 1:00 am as his phone chimed.

“As an experienced officer of the law, you should know better than to enter the home of a dangerous suspect, without either a warrant or backup. Unless you wish to convince me that both Sgt. Donovan and a judge have offered up their Saturday evenings.”

Greg hadn’t been prepared for the tremble in Mycroft’s voice.

“Saturday’s the best time for catching younger miscreants not at home. I'm still in one piece,” he said quietly. He heard Mycroft take a breath. He just hadn’t thought, had he? That someone might worry about him. That he had to keep himself safe to do Mycroft any good. “Wardrobes’s empty though, and mail is piling up. I probably wouldn’t have gone in alone, if I had known about the psychopath bit.”

“Well, the triad hasn’t stood up well to research, although the cruelty to animals component seems to correlate with later violence against humans.”

“So they say, but the triad holds up quite well in the field, thanks.”

“Sorry, I am digressing. When I got your message, I had someone check on Meeker’s boat. It’s no longer in the marina at Barry.”

“Sounds as though he’s done a proper runner.” 

“Are you at home?”

“Close. Just at the moment, I’m enjoying the magical scenery of South Ealing. You?“ Greg could hear the whine of a motorcycle in the background.

“Just arrived. With Evans remanded, we need only check on Wilson.”

“Manchester CID told me all was well yesterday. Going about his business. Brought their ketchup packets round himself, but they don’t have anyone on him formally.”

“I’ll arrange for more permanent surveillance.”

“You mean, a team is in place as of ten minutes after you got my message.”

“Closer to five. Our Manchester resources are rather good.”

“And you have further resources out looking for Meeker’s boat, then?”

“Naturally.”

Greg wondered if it was normal to find the ability to commandeer Royal Navy cutters arousing. 

“Right then. I’m knackered.”

“There is little else we can do now. You should get some sleep.”

“So should you.”

“Goodnight, Greg. I will phone you tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t going to let you weasel out of dinner, regardless of dangerous fugitives and questionable caterers.”

“I’ve – I’ve been looking forward to it. Circumstances could conspire to make this a working meal.”

“And it probably won’t be the last time that happens.”

“Let’s hope any future dining interruptions are caused by other miscreants. I’d like to at least think we are reducing crime in percentage terms. 

“Go to bed, love.”

They hung up. Greg felt a pang of fear, but didn’t quite know why. Maybe it was all that talk about Meeker and animals. He had pulled over to chat with Mycroft, and he took the opportunity to scroll through a couple of other messages. One from his sister. More football bloopers from his nephew, Tom. One from Cardiff Central Station. Apparently, Wilson had applied for the catering contract for their canteen. When they’d called Manchester for a reference, Manchester had said to check with Greg. Wow, for a man who made sandwiches for a living, Wilson had a pair on him. So, just a small businessman looking for opportunity or subtle criminal genius? 

Greg pulled back onto the motorway, and settled in for another stretch behind the wheel. Suddenly, he realized what had been bothering him about Meeker all this time, and slowly, his blood began to run cold. 

They’d gone about this all wrong, and they had been seeing things that weren’t there. Eurus had seemed so powerful. They had thought she was like Moriarty, building a worldwide criminal network. Look, though, at the people she had gathered around her. Not criminal masterminds, not really even people who could organize or convince others to follow them. That was why they couldn’t find any contacts among them. They didn’t know each other; they had each bonded with her individually. She had exploited their weaknesses: Wilson was lonely, Evans was a narcissist whose ego needed stroking, and Meeker needed money or loved violence or both, or it didn’t matter. When Eurus was gone, they were exquisitely lost. With the sudden loss of contact, Wilson and Evans had tried to get back to her the only way they knew: through Mycroft. Now Meeker was in the wind, and he had motorcycles, and Greg had been hearing and seeing motorcycles all over the place, especially near Mycroft. They just hadn’t really registered, just the way the one he heard 5 minutes ago hadn’t really entered his conscious mind. 

He grabbed his phone, while turning south. He called Anthea and told her to send a team, no everyone she could find. He phone Richmond Borough Main Station. No answer. Typical. What were they on – a fucking tea break? He pressed Mycroft’s contact entry on his phone. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft heard the noise first. If this was Sherlock and John again, he would see to it that John was transferred to a one room clinic on the most distant of the Orkneys, and would personally go to wave them off from the docks.

But he was honest with himself. It probably wasn’t they. There was a more likely and more sinister explanation. Mycroft was in his study. The trick would be to get to the umbrella stand in the hallway. This opponent would most assuredly be armed. 

He was easing himself toward the door of the room, when all of the power went out. Well, there was, of course, the emergency generator. Oh, but the crash must have been the plastic Wendy house that was supposed to have hidden it. Damn. That had seemed an inspired idea at the time, but he supposed that his dearth of actual children would have been a giveaway to anyone watching the house. Mycroft, though, was a behind the scenes player. No one was supposed to know enough about him to watch the house.

So the perimeter was breached, the lights were out, his weapon was in the hall outside, as was his panic button which was in the pocket of his coat out on the rack. Yes, he was supposed to have the thing on him at all times. Anthea had tutted at him, and Philip had lectured him, while Maurice looked on reproachfully. The buttons were bulky, and they thumped his chest rather dreadfully, if he wore one whilst on the treadmill. In hindsight, that seemed a rather small price to pay now.

Mycroft tried to creep out into the hallway, but he pulled back as he saw the beam of the intruder’s torch just below him. The hallway was of a piece with the stair landing, visible from the floor below, and he didn’t want to sacrifice the element of surprise. 

“Right, then,” shouted the intruder. “Mycroft Holmes? Come out now. Your pet policeman isn’t here to save you now.”

So he knew about Greg. How had he ascertained that? Hmm. Followed them perhaps? Not many opportunities for that, but the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. He would have to warn Greg now. Quickly. He had his phone, of course, but any conversation would be overheard. A simple dropped call to 999 would, in theory, be the correct course of action, but that would be routed to the Richmond Borough Police Station, and they were probably on a tea break. Again.

A text to Greg directly would only bring him here, as an additional target for Meeker. A text to Anthea telling her to send help and contact Greg was clearly the only choice. Mycroft sent the text. It hung. He sent it again. No result. A jammer?

“You needn’t bother with your bleedin’ mobile, either. Got a signal jammer, haven’t I?’

Well, this was what they had come to as a nation. A psychopathic gun runner, with a single boat, living in what appeared on paper to be an illegal rental, was able to obtain a mobile jamming device off of the internet and cripple the British government. Mycroft sighed. He had warned the Home Secretary about the need to stay one step ahead, as most criminals were tech savvy Millennials, but everyone pleaded austerity. Mycroft stayed silent, but the torch beam was headed up the stairs now, and he expected that he would be discovered. The study had only one way in or out. 

Mycroft slid under his desk, grateful that his grandfather had believed in oversized furniture. His feet still stuck out, but in the dark, it might buy him a few needed seconds.

It was unclear how quickly Meeker would find him. If he searched in a standard pattern, perhaps five minutes. If he had seen the light on in Mycroft’s study, less time.

What did he want? Money was simple enough. The complication was that the safe was in here. He could open it, hope Meeker would take the cash and flee. If Meeker caught him and forced him to open the safe, it could turn out the same way, but Mycroft rather doubted it. If the miscreant wanted some kind of revenge on Eurus’ behalf, that could get more complicated. Or less so, if the man just decided to shoot him.

Damn. It would be just his luck to die on the cusp of the best relationship of his adult life. Greg would be his one regret. The country had muddled along since 1066. Not always successfully, to be sure, but the Tower had lasted that long, the Magna Carta had lasted longer than most nations, and the Queen had a flurry of largely non-smoking progeny. Indeed, the country would survive without Mycroft Holmes. What he wouldn’t give, though, to wrap his arms around Greg one last time, to borrow some of his solid strength.

And what of Greg? In a just world, Greg would mourn him tastefully for, say, 6 months, and then would slowly reintegrate back into life, including finding a suitable partner. That, of course, was predicated on the notion that someone besides Mycroft Holmes could spot and appreciate Greg’s great worth: his loyalty, his kindness, his ability to organize a team and see things through. Mycroft had little faith in humanity’s ability to perform tasks requiring attention spans longer than YouTube videos. Mycroft had long learned that if he wanted something done right...

He needed to walk away from this, for Greg’s sake as much as his own. He needed a distraction.  
Mycroft heard another crash, and a profusion of profanity. It was not Meeker’s voice. He want sure whether to feel relieved or more frightened. He had to figure out how to warn Greg without thoroughly giving away his position. While he was pondering, Greg’s voice rang out.

“Right then, Meeker, most of the Yard and MI-5 are on their way. I’m just ‘ere first because I’m a faster driver. No sense of me own mortality. Just put down whatever weapons you have. A good lawyer can still get you out of a lot of what Crown Prosecution could throw at you at this point. If you start trading shots with the bobbies, that gets trickier.”

Mycroft had to stifle a laugh. Greg’s accent had retreated far closer to Bow than anyplace that any Lestrades currently lived. Not above a bit of theatre was Greg. He’s get them some tickets to the National this season.

He peered out from behind the desk. Damn. Meeker had almost reached the landing and had turned out his torch. Mycroft’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he could see Meeker’s silhouette. In contrast, Greg’s torch was on, giving his position away. He was no fool, though, and he’d slid behind a grandfather clock in the foyer. Meeker moved his torch to his left hand and reached into his jacket pocket.

Mycroft rose and grabbed two books from the shelves.

“He’s up here, Inspector,” he shouted. Meeker turned toward Mycroft, gun in hand. Lestrade’s torch was now barreling up the stairs. Mycroft threw the books at Meeker, who deflected them, and then moved toward Mycroft. 

“Drop it, Meeker,” Greg had reached the landing. He did not appear to be armed.

Meeker turned back toward Greg, who leapt toward him in return. They grappled and two shots rang out. Mycroft bolted to the umbrella stand. In one swift movement, he extracted the disguised gun, turned and pressed it against Meeker’s temple.

“Drop your weapon, Meeker, if you wish your brain to remain inside your skull, although truthfully, it seems to be doing you little good there.”

Meeker dropped the weapon, which Mycroft scooped up. He looked down quickly. Greg was on the ground, covered in blood. Mycroft wrestled Meeker into his study and into a large with an old fashioned wardrobe with an external lock. He pocketed the key and raced back to the hallway. He knelt by Greg

Greg had a head wound, which looked to be superficial. Mycroft told himself those always bled a lot, looked worse than they were. More worrying was Greg’s left arm, from which blood was pooling at an alarming rate. Mycroft wrenched off his tie and wrapped it around the wound. Greg appeared dazed.

“Mycroft, you alright then?” 

“Yes, thanks to you. Just hold still.”

“Thank God. Look, I have to say this. I know I was worried about pushing you too far, too soon. I just, you know if it can all go to hell in a moment, shouldn’t we take advantage of the moments when it isn’t going to hell? Damn, that’s not coming out right, but -”

Mycroft smiled at him, and put a hand on the side of Greg’s face. 

“Just rest. All I could think of when Meeker came in was whether I would get more time with you. And then you were there, and I’ve rather started making a lot of plans for our future in my head. Sorry, planning is what I do.” Mycroft though, felt an over whelming need for the future to be now. He leaned over and gently kissed Greg. 

Greg looked a bit dazed. Mycroft was concerned that this was not entirely due to his own animal charms. The bleeding was slowing, so Mycroft risked leaping to his feet and pressing the panic button in the pocket of his coat on the hallway rack.

Philip and Maurice, in specially made XXL kevlar vests, burst through the door, followed by Anthea, dressed rather more casually than usual and calmly carrying an industrial emergency spotlight.

“I must say, that exceeds even my highest standard of professionalism. I’ve only just pressed the button.”

“Lestrade called me, Sir.” The whine of sirens moving closer to them could be heard. “That’ll be Emergency Services, Sir. They would have arrived first, but I had to bring them up from Twickenham.”

 

Mycroft tossed a key to Philip, who was followed up the stairs by Maurice.

“There’s a gunrunner locked in a wardrobe in my study. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a psychopath.”

They lumbered past him. There was a bit of a ruckus, some squawking, a strangled cry of “I know my rights, don’t I?”, and a bit more ruckus as they swept Meeker out the door.

It barely registered with Mycroft, as he knelt by Greg again. He pressed a handkerchief against the head wound and checked the makeshift bandage on Greg’s arm. Greg was looking quite pale, and his skin was cold. Mycroft jumped up in alarm, pulled a blanket from a chest in the hallway, and put it over Greg, who winced, and began holding his breath for longer intervals to reduce the pain. 

“The ambulance will be here soon.”

“How many times have I said that?” Greg smiled as Mycroft took his hand, but his speech was labored, and faint. “I think I’m seeing things, Mycroft. Is Philip really dressed as Prince Albert?”

“One man play on the life of Charles Dickens. A small venue in a coffee bar in Shoreditch, but it’s gotten rather good reviews.”

Mycroft grew so concerned about Greg’s appearance that he began to wonder if he’d missed another wound. There had only been two shots, and Greg had two obvious points of entry. Just as Mycroft was starting to panic, the medical professionals arrived. They spoke in reassuring tones, hooked Greg up to a reassuring number of machines and loaded him into an ambulance. Mycroft got in beside him. The paramedics began to object, but Mycroft threw them a look that said “The Falklands are lovely this time of year, and a bit short of trained medical personnel,” so no further objections were recorded.

As they arrived at the ambulance bay, Greg was swept into the A&E department. Mycroft walked into the hospital after him. He had an unnerving sense of déjà vu as he felt the same superfluity that he always felt when arriving at hospital to deal with one of Sherlock’s episodes. He stood back, unsure, hovering near the entrance to the treatment area, as the doctors worked on Greg. Just to reassure himself, he sent a couple of precautionary texts. When all of the personnel had drawn back save one nurse, Greg looked about, caught sight of him, and weakly muttered his name. Mycroft rushed to his side. Greg had received some pain relief when the ambulance had initially arrived at his home, but clearly it was wearing off. Greg inhaled with a hiss. Mycroft was unsure what to do. 

“I’ll get someone.”

“No, I mean, please just stay, if you can.”

Mycroft reached over and rubbed Greg’s uninjured shoulder. His wounded one was bandaged to the point where it had twice its normal diameter. Just then two nurses returned with a Very Important Person carrying a chart. He glanced at Mycroft and then looked back at Greg.

“It’s alright. Anything you tell me, you can tell him. “ 

“Well, well, Inspector, is it? Unfortunate injury, so we must set you to rights, what? I must really recommend surgery. There’s the nicked vein, which is why you were seeing so much blood. There could also be a bit of bother with the nerves. Early to tell, yet.”

Mycroft had three texts on his phone suggesting that that might be the case. Greg was still in obvious pain, but managed a few words.

“Right then, you just do what you need to do, Doc.”

“We’ll need to wait for the anesthesiologist to top up your pain medication, I’m afraid, but it won’t be long now.”

Here, Mycroft intervened.

“Certainly, Mr., er –“

“Milton, James Milton.”

“Yes, Mr. Milton. If you don’t mind though, as Detective Inspector Lestrade is on secondment to the Services, and we like to keep things in the family, so to speak, we’ll be having one of our own representatives scrub in, so to speak.”

The surgeon looked none too pleased, but tried to gloss that over.

“And who might this person be?”

“Sir Torquhil Braithwaite.”

The surgeon went a bit pale at the mention of the UK surgeon with the most published studies within the field of orthopedic surgery. He again recovered nicely, noted Mycroft.

“Surely, it will be bit difficult to find Sir Torquhil and get him here at 2:00 on a Sunday morning.”

“Oh, he’s only too glad,” said Mycroft. “In fact, I think that’s his transport now.” The sound of a helicopter could be heard overhead. 

String-pulling notwithstanding, Mycroft found himself relegated to the waiting room, yet again. There had been a few years when Sherlock had practically earned himself a frequent flier card at the hospital. He noted that the tea in the café was still Lipton, which was unthinkable for the first hour, undesirable for the next, and, finally, necessary after two hours had passed. Mycroft kept himself awake and distracted through the long night by making certain arrangements. 

There were quite a few items to take care of, even beyond the disposition of Meeker. Mycroft sent a statement to the Special Prosecutions desk, with a proviso that Greg could provide a corroborating statement in due course. He alerted Sgt. Donovan, with a request to defer any official notification of Greg’s next of kin. He made some arrangements for the next week, and the weeks to follow, based on Sir Torquhil’s recommendations. The man had of course wormed a sizeable donation out of him for the soon-to-be-announced Braithwaite Bursary at Harrow, but that was only to be expected. The knighthood was regarded as a mere stepping stone on the way to a life peerage, and the man had a timetable. No matter. If he managed to save Greg’s arm function, Mycroft would slip his name into the Birthday Honors List personally.

Mycroft was finally allowed to visit Greg in the post-operative ward. Greg’s arm was heavily bandaged, and he was out like a light. It was all Mycroft could do to stop himself from climbing into the bed and embracing him. A nurse coughed discreetly in the doorway.

“He’ll be asleep for a while yet. It was a long surgery. Now might be a good time to get a bit of rest yourself.” 

Dawn was breaking as Mycroft wandered in a dazed fashion into the parking lot. A black sedan awaited him. Four hours later, he returned to the hospital, felling somewhat refreshed, but anxious to hear from the consulting surgeons. Greg was just beginning to stir a bit. He was attached to an intravenous feed. Mycroft glanced at Greg’s chart. The prognosis seemed good. Mycroft crooked an eyebrow when he read the orders for post-operative pain medication. Good Lord, this combination would give an elephant an out of body experience.

“Mycrof’? Glad to see you in one piece. Say, you going to hop in here with me?” Greg smiled that charming grin of his.

Mycroft couldn’t help smiling back. His concern at attempting to explain why they couldn’t get too amorous in the post-operative ward of an NHS facility was curtailed by the arrival of the arrival of Sir Torquhil and Mr. Milton.

“Ah, Inspector Lestrade, how are you then?” Without waiting for a reply, Sir Torquhil grabbed Greg’s chart. “Things were a bit tricky in theatre, but you’ll be right as rain soon enough. We repaired the vascular damage, and I am optimistic that there will be little nerve damage.”

“Sir Torquhil did a really spiffing anastomosis,” said Mr. Milton.

“If only the golf links were as easy as the median cubital.”

They both laughed loudly. Mycroft cleared his throat. Sir Torquhil looked at Greg’s chart.

“Right then. The vitals look good, so we’ll mark him down as stable for transport. Holmes, if you want to move him to that converted bank vault you call a hospital, be my guest”

“Bank vault?” said Milton.

“On secondment to the services. Surprise you didn’t insist on scrubbing in, Holmes, to make sure he didn’t reveal any state secrets.” They both laughed loudly, although it was clear that Milton had no idea why he was laughing. Mycroft smile thinly and, reaching into his pocket, texted Anthea for the transport.

“Are you the knight then?” Greg asked, having decided to join the conversation. “I was hoping for some jousting to take my mind off my arm. Doesn’t seem to be working at the moment.”

“That’ll pass in time. No jousting, though. My armor’s at the cleaners.” Sir Torquhil roared with laughter again, as the two surgeons swept out, and a nurse came in to change Greg’s IV bag.

“Funny lot. Are you sure those two have a license to practice medicine? Speaking of medicine, maybe we could play a bit of...doctor.” Greg yawned and then fell asleep again. Mycroft patted his hand fondly. 

The transport arrived. The Services preferred to use a secure facility in North London. It was quite comfortable, with private rooms. Mycroft had arranged for Greg to be given one of the larger rooms, and he made himself comfortable on the sofa for two nights. The beauty of the secure facility was that it also had a secure internet partition, allowing Mycroft to keep tabs on work. Greg was quite groggy during most of that time. The gaggle of unflaggingly cheerful young people who came through to change Greg’s dressings and check his vitals all said that it took a good while for the body to flush the anesthesia after a longer operation. 

Finally, on the third day, Greg began to stir, and really properly open his eyes. Mycroft looked up from his laptop and hesitated. Damnit, anyway, what was the use of a private room if you didn’t do anything that required privacy. He got up, and carefully unfolded himself onto the bed where Greg was shifting. He slung an arm around Greg, gently. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, as Greg looked up at him.

“Been worse, not by much, though.” Greg looked at his arm, almost dispassionately.

“A damaged vein has been repaired. The doctors are optimistic that you’ll make a full recovery, but a week disuse will need to be followed by some therapy.” 

“Right then. Cross that bridge when we come to it.” Greg shut his eyes and leaned into Mycroft. “God, am I relieved to see you. When I realized what I’d heard, and then I tried to call you back, and couldn’t answer, I imagined the worst.”

Mycroft rested his cheek on Greg’s hair. 

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you. How did you know? I’d – you know I’d be dead if you hadn’t marched through my door. ”

“It was his motorcycle. His shop, if you can call it that, had loads of them. I heard it in the background when I talked to you on the phone. When you hung up, I realized that I’d been hearing that sound everywhere, always when I was with you. I think, Mycroft, I think I led him right to your place that night I drove you back from the hospital in Cardiff. God, what a fucking rookie mistake.” Greg looked up at the ceiling, a look of disgust on his face.”

“My dear,” said Mycroft, gently touching his chin, “how could you have known?” 

“I should have thought about her outside contacts. We were expecting more out of Eurus then, though.”

“That I think was our most egregious error. We were expecting a sophisticated operation.”

“But really, we should have been looking at the obvious. She was no Moriarty. She couldn’t be.”

“Exactly. We expected her to have a sophisticated operation, but really, she just had a collection of misfits. She could manipulate each one…”

“But none of them was capable of being a second in command, of creating their own little organization.” Greg smiled, “I like to think we middle managers are a bit discerning that way. We can spot the rot at the top and keep away.”

“I don’t think I realized until I heard your description of Meeker and then encountered him myself.” Mycroft looked at Greg. “I’ve never had someone come to my rescue before. Not properly.”

“You’re usually the one who’s figured things out in time to do the rescuing –“ At this point, Mycroft had leaned over to gently start kissing Greg. This felt so right. As their lips and tongues slid together, at first hesitantly, and then with abandon, Mycroft had a sensation of belonging. It was good for him, but he could feel that Greg wanted it, needed it, too. They stopped for a breath of air. Greg leaned against Mycroft’s shoulder, sighing so softly that Mycroft nearly missed it.

“I rather like the stubble,” said Mycroft, stroking Greg’s face. “It’s too bad you’ll have to lose it tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“That’s when your mother is coming to visit.”

“Oi.”


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

His recollection of the first few days was a bit blurry. He was in A&E for a bit. Mycroft was there. There was some shouting, which surprised him. This was, after all, a posh suburb, and he had always rather supposed that medical professionals here requested intravenous fluids in dulcet tones with vowels that could scratch a mirror. He had some recollection of feeling pain, but that was a distant memory now. 

Then a very hail fellow, well met surgeon came in and said he needed an operation. Made a good case for it and all. Then Mycroft had said a knight should operate on him. At the time, Greg had thought “Alright then, a knight as well as anybody.” 

After that, Greg had been rather out of the loop. His vague recollection was that this coincided with the rise in the quality of his pain management. He dimly remembered a joint post-operative visit from the surgeon and the knight, who seemed to be getting on like a house on fire. The knight muttered something to Mycroft about “stable enough to transfer”. Mycroft smiled insincerely, thanked him, and muttered something about a cheque being forthcoming.

Then more medical technicians came and transported him somewhere else. He remembered Mycroft holding his good arm all the way. 

The next couple of days were still a bit of a blur. He was clearly someplace posh, judging by the privacy they were being afforded. During his short periods of half wakefulness, he got used to seeing the same three nurses come in periodically. Kate was one, then another lass who started off a “Locomotion” earworm in his head every time he saw her, so he supposed her name must be Kylie. There was also a bloke whose name he couldn’t remember, but who wore an Arsenal shirt under his scrubs. Alright, then.

The one constant was Mycroft. Whenever he woke, Mycroft was seated at a nearby table, frowning at his laptop. When he finally woke properly, really feeling like himself again, instead of the dream-like state after the operation, Mycroft was on the bed with him, holding him. It was nice, fantastic, really.  
He and Mycroft discussed Eurus, and found that they were largely on the same page. Greg couldn’t helped feel secretly quite chuffed that he had come to the same conclusions as Mycroft. 

Then Mycroft had told him that his mother was coming to visit. Greg was halfway through a groan, when it occurred to him that someone had to have told his mother that he was injured. Now, if it had been up to the Yard, they would have given his mother a call from Human Resources the minute he went under the knife, so Mycroft must have stopped that somehow, because if she had heard before now, she would have been there. Yet, she was coming tomorrow, when he was on the mend. He’d be able to see her without terrifying her.

“Thanks, love” he said simply, burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder, briefly. 

“Women of your mother’s age really are set up to cope, you know, Greg. Maybe better than we are. When your mother was a girl, she had to hand in a form to the grocer to get a cup of milk. Her income depends on a pension, which required an application. She and her set spend a lot of time in doctors’ surgeries, they have to manage a lot of prescriptions, and she had to fill out an application for a Freedom Pass. She expects life to come with a lot of paperwork. So, when I explained that you were temporarily working with our office, and then suggested that she hadn’t been notified of your injury right away because of a bureaucratic slip-up in communications between the Yard and my office, well, it was no more than she would have expected.” 

Then a doctor came in. Not the knight, not the car salesman-like fellow from the A&E. This fellow was low-key and business-like. He asked Greg to wiggle his fingers in a series of patterns.

“Right, then. Arm is healing nicely. We’ll keep you here a few more days. Then, home to rest for another week, with the arm immobilized. You have someone to help you with daily tasks, and so forth? You’ll really need to keep that arm still for that first week at home.”

At this point, Mycroft interjected. 

“Arrangements have been made.”

“Good, good. The nerves seem alright; we’ll know more when the therapy starts the following week, but I am optimistic for a full recovery.” The doctor’s tone suggested that he was surprised to find himself optimistic about much of anything, really.”

“Arrangements have been made for therapy as well.”

“You both can see that I’m in the room, right?” Greg kept his tone light. He wasn’t really annoyed. Mycroft then had to leave, which Greg found disappointing, but not surprising.

Greg re-entered the conscious world more fully at this point. Fortunately, his right arm was fine, and he looked forward to the arrival of his lunch tray. He was disappointed to discover that posh, private hospital did not mean posh, private chef-type food. As he dejectedly spooned through his consommé and cream crackers, Kylie gave him an indulgent smile. 

“Baby steps then, Mr. Lestrade.”

Greg decided that if she asked how “we” were feeling today, he would have Roberts personally present her with a parking summons. Daily. He discovered that he had a remote for the television and a menu of programs, so he settled down for a smorgasbord of Top Gear, with a chaser of Match of the Day. The Arsenal supporter, whose name was actually Ted, came in at the afternoon shift change.

“Your bloke not here then? Didn’t think we’d ever see this room without him. He’s been here night and day.”

“I remember seeing him every time I woke up but...”

“Yeah, you’ve been pretty out of it. I knew you were alright, though. Whenever I asked, you could remember the starters for the season opener.” 

“Despite the fact that I have shirts in my closet older than the lot of them,” said Greg with a grin.

Mycroft returned around seven, looking a bit the worse for wear. Greg wondered what it was costing him to take all of this time out of the office to be here.

“I don’t suppose you have a bacon sandwich and a coffee in that briefcase.”

“Even if I did, you are on a restricted diet for a few days. Of course if it were up to me…”

“Good to know there are a few people who can get Mycroft Holmes to obey orders.” Greg stopped for a moment. Mycroft was looking at him rather hesitantly. “I’m hoping that small group includes me. Come on over, will you.” The relief in Mycroft’s eyes was palpable. Greg wondered if perhaps Mycroft had worried that Greg had changed his mind after an extended period of exposure to various opiates. Mycroft slid gently onto the bed with him. Greg leaned into him, stifling a yawn.

“I’m going to start taking this the wrong way, Greg.” 

Greg shut his eyes and murmured into Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Where do they have you sleeping?”

“The back of the sofa folds down. It’s really quite comfortable.”

“You aren’t the worst liar I’ve ever met, but you aren’t the best either. Just stay here.”

“At least until you nod off.”

“I get the feeling you’ve been on the receiving end of a few unfinished conversations with me.”

“Mmm.”

“Can’t promise much better today,” he said, shutting his eyes. “I’ll need all my strength for the full Phyllis Lestrade onslaught tomorrow. You might want to arrange to go into the office just before.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. She is bringing your sister. I am hoping for childhood photos.”

Greg opened one eye to look at Mycroft, who smiled benignly, as if he were engaged in a game of poker with North Korea, with nuclear weaponry as the stakes. He sighed. This would be torture, but it couldn’t be any more awkward than his divorce mediation.

Mycroft woke him early and helped him change his shirt and shave. It initially seemed romantic to have Mycroft unbuttoning his pajamas, but things quickly descended into a comedy of errors, and Kylie walked in just as Greg was exclaiming,

“Bollocks, these hospital issue nightmares have at least three sleeves,” and Mycroft was upside down trying to retrieve Greg’s inflatable splint from the floor. The nurse soon tutted them back into good order, just as Greg’s mum swept in, carrying a cake tin, followed by Greg’s sister who entered timidly with her usual Tupperware of roast chicken.

“There you are, love. I’m so relieved to clap eyes on you myself, but your colleague Mr. Holmes was right, you don’t look too bad, just a bit peaky. It’s probably this institutional food. Emily and I have brought you a little something to top you up.” At this point she turned to Mycroft. “You must be Mr. Holmes. Thanks ever so much for sending the car. It was very comfortable. I don’t drive anymore myself, and Emily’s Gordon usually takes theirs to work.” 

His mother briefly paused to draw breath, then began passing around plates of roast chicken and pineapple upside down cake, punctuated with tales of the Garden Club, his nephew Tom’s prize in mathematics at school, his nephew Jamie’s triumph in the Year 6 play about bicameral legislative systems, a notable quote from the head of Emily’s nursery, gossip from Paul’s ashram, and Beryl-down-the-road’s hip replacement. At one point, Kylie appeared with a disapproving sniff at the cake.

“Mr. Lestrade IS on a restricted diet.”

“Of course, dearie, but a bit of cake never hurt anyone. In fact, my Uncle Thomas, who was injured at Dunkirk, really always attributed his recovery to the Bakewell tarts he got afterward. Said it was the protein in the almonds…”

Greg was particularly touched by her treatment of Mycroft. He really wasn’t out to any of his family members. His mum might have suspected at some point, had she been a modern parent, but he thought that unlikely at this point. 

“Now then, Mr. Holmes, you’ll have another slice of cake, won’t you? You look like you could use a bit of feeding up. That Mrs. May doesn’t half look like a taskmaster. Or is it taskmistress?” she pondered, deftly handing round a second helping to Mycroft and a slice to a very hopeful looking Ted, who had seemingly shown up early when he heard a rumor about someone’s mum dropping by. “Of course, we’ve always voted Labour. Not that they’ve always got both feet planted on the ground; some of them seem right daft, but at least they believe in common decency. To hear some of these Tories rattle on about immigration – my mother in law wasn’t born on English soil, but she did her bit through two wars, which is more than I can say for some. Now, Greg, love, they’ve done your arm a right mischief. Have you thought about how you’re going to get on? Just until you’re back on your feet, mind. Emily and I can bring your dinner over, but then you’ll have to be doing physio, won’t you.” 

“Well I – “

“I’ve asked Greg to convalesce at my home, Mrs. Lestrade,” interjected Mycroft, possibly to forestall any further graphic comparisons to Beryl-down-the-road. “My housekeeping service will take care of the daily tasks, and there is room for the physiotherapists to do their work. They’ve already given us a schedule. Of course, I will be only too happy to send my car for you at any time. I’m certain that Greg will welcome a friendly face.”

“Well, that’s alright then. Goodness, the government does take care of its own. I suppose it’s only right, though. I’ll be back day after tomorrow, love. Tomorrow’s my day to do the flowers in the parish hall.” Mrs. Lestrade kissed Greg, and Mycroft, and Ted, and swept out, cake tin in hand, followed by Emily.

Mycroft looked a bit stunned.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“No, no, she’s quite charming. I must say when a woman of her age forces me to use that much of my focus, I am usually also dodging corgis.”

Greg laughed. Then he grew more serious.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I just - , no.” Greg was looking at Mycroft. He realized that at some point, he had become one of Mycroft’s people. There didn’t seem to be very many: Sherlock, John, Mycroft’s parents, Betty up at the Palace. For those people, though, Mycroft seemed to do everything, anticipating their needs, so that someone was always at the ready to assist them. He swallowed, and for a moment, he felt a lump in his throat. 

“I hope I haven’t overstepped,” said Mycroft. “I should have discussed – “

“No, really, if you ever want to take charge of my recovery from a devastating injury again, feel free.” Greg looked down. “It may be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“I don’t want to waste any more time,” said Mycroft, sitting and taking Greg’s right hand. “One thing the last few months have taught me is that I must expect the unexpected. I want us to enjoy the time we have. We don’t know how much – “   
-  
At this point, Greg decided that it was important to grab Mycroft’s tie, pull him over, and kiss him. Just at the point that their hands began snaking up under each others’ shirts, and Greg found himself breathing rather hard, they broke apart.

“Your arm – “

“Kylie could walk in at any moment – “

Greg smiled ruefully

“Suppose I do need to get medical clearance.”

“If cake was enough to rouse her ire, I would prefer not to be on the receiving end of the looks of horror, if she should walk in on us en flagrante.”

“All the same, why don’t you come on up here.” Mycroft kicked off his shoes and obliged. “What are your thoughts on blowing up trucks?”

“I generally disapprove of it within city limits, but, in truth, we do employ a few practitioners of that art.”

“This is a bit less detrimental to foreign policy, but only a bit.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on Greg’s bed watching television. They decided to agree to disagree on Top Gear, but Mycroft surprised him by turning to the Match of the Day.

“What are your thoughts about the possible relegation of Aston Villa?”

Greg did a double take. 

“Who are you, and what have you done with the real Mycroft Holmes?”

“Still me, I assure you.” Mycroft appeared thoughtful. “Really, it is a bit fascinating, when you begin to calculate the probabilities. Take a player drafted out of Under 18’s - “

“Seriously, Mycroft, how did you learn all of this? Last week, you would have said Aston Villa was a posh house in Birmingham.”

“Well, I started with Footstats, but Squawka.com has some rather delightful mathematical modeling - “

Greg fell silent. He hadn’t been this moved since they’d handed him a desk nameplate with “DI Gregory Lestrade” on it. He couldn’t believe that Mycroft had learned all of that for him. He blinked rapidly. 

“I - “ He found that he couldn’t stop the tears. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m doing this. Must be the pain medication.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft, wrapping his arms around Greg.

A few days later, Greg found himself discharged and headed to Mycroft’s house in the back of a non-descript black car. When he went into the guest room, his things were there, packed in a small leather hold-all he used for overnight trips in search of reluctant witnesses. He was grateful, but no longer surprised. They were like a team, now, for better or for worse.

Mycroft had followed him upstairs. He clears his throat nervously. 

“You’ll probably want some room to unpack, but, as to sleeping arrangements, that is, I had hoped - “

“Mr. Holmes, are you making me an indecent proposal? I’m going to be very insulted, if you aren’t.“ Greg reached for Mycroft with his good arm.

Mycroft gingerly put an arm around Greg’s right side.

“We should be careful of your arm,” he murmured against Greg’s lips.

“Kylie wrapped it in every bandage in the hospital. I don’t think I could move it if I tried.”

Mycroft nevertheless continued to treat Greg like a porcelain figurine for a week. They went to bed together every night, which Greg found oddly peaceful, despite the fact that Mycroft often came in very late. Nonetheless, he was eager to be closer to Mycroft after all of the enforced separation. It took about four chaste nights for Greg to convince Mycroft that a little exploration was perfectly fine, and only by sternly offering to put a builder’s level on his arm to measure the vibrations, did he finally drive home to Mycroft the fact that he was feeling a bit frustrated. Having obtained Mycroft’s startled permission, he slipped his hand beneath the sheets before further objections could be offered.

He had really missed this closeness. They had had just a taste of it before everything had unfolded. They touched each other, stroking, kissing, removing pajamas, but keeping vests on against the February chill. Mycroft was still careful, but Greg’s touch soon had him shuddering and writhing to the point that he forgot to inquire after the wound. They both slept better for the next few nights.

At the end of the first week, Dr. Drab, as Greg had nicknamed him, suddenly appeared on Mycroft’s doorstep one morning, after Mycroft had gone to work. He pronounced Greg ready for physical activity and told him he could remove the sling, cautioning him that after weeks of disuse, the arm would be stiff, and he’d really need some physical therapy to get back to 100 percent.

Greg was therefore unsurprised when an Icelandic fellow called Torvald arrived the following morning to put Greg through the most grueling set of exercises since the police training scheme of his youth.

“Smiley bloke, for a sadist,” said Greg, as Mycroft helped him out of his shirt and into a heated muscle wrap.

“Sadists usually are,” said Mycroft with a grin. He hung his bathrobe on a hook behind the door before getting into bed. That was new, Greg noticed. Ready to go at a moment’s notice? He’d have to probe further. Subtly, of course. Mycroft had made a lot of progress in getting over his sister. Still, if he was having residual anxiety, Greg wanted to know.

Greg was enjoying playing house with Mycroft. This version of domesticity was quite painless. Greg preferred not to think how much of this was due to the fact that Mycroft’s family wealth enabled them to skirt the stumbling blocks that most couples encountered. There were no arguments over who was going to change the bulb on the porch light; there were people for that.

Nonetheless, Greg had the impression that he himself was contributing quite substantially to Mycroft’s comfort as well. The morning after he had arrived chez Holmes, Mycroft had gotten up and gone to work, leaving Greg to convalesce. Anthea had arrived, looking over her shoulder.

“We have thirty minutes. I’ve told Mr. Holmes I’m at the dentist.”

“Your teeth are perfect.”

“Which is why we now have 29 minutes,” she said brusquely calling up a menu on her phone. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a meal service for you and Mr. Holmes. It’s called Chef Cook and Bottle Washer. They will deliver partially cooked meals to you, or just raw ingredients for them. The delivery chap knows to bring the box inside for you. Now, will you be comfortable heating things up, or do you prefer to cook yourself?”

“I, uh, - “

“You can specify on their website.”

She quickly took him through the various choices and deadlines for ordering. Greg was a bit puzzled.

“Why the secrecy? Doesn’t Mycroft usually handle this himself?”

Anthea looked chagrined. 

“Mr. Holmes doesn’t always pay adequate attention to his diet. He is forced to dine out several nights per week at hotel meetings, with the accompanying plates of rubbery chicken in cream sauce. The rest of the time, he seldom has anything on hand.”

“That I’ve noticed.”

“As nearly as I can tell, he survives on tea and toast, and then on Friday night, he turns in desperation to…” and here, her look of anguish grew acute. She swallowed and forced out the words, “Pizza Express.”

Well that explained the menus on the fridge. Greg tried not to laugh. To most women, the diet of the middle aged bachelor seemed as threatening to health as an addiction to a controlled substance or a skydiving hobby.

“Right then, no worries. I’ll keep him in meat and two veg for the time being.”

Anthea smiled gratefully and fled into the mist, which had appeared from nowhere.

Now, with his arm out of prison, Greg had switched to the option of just having groceries delivered, so he could do a bit of cooking. It was nice, this. He had some time to work with, instead of arriving home at 8, starving, and eating salad, leftovers, or Weetabix. He cadged two more recipes off of Emily, and risked calling his mum for Yorkshire Pudding instructions, which he got, eventually. (“You really need lard for proper ones, love. Of course that’s hard to come by nowadays. We always got it from the butcher, Mr. Perkins, who flirted shamelessly with both your grandmothers. His daughter married Buzz Dooley, and they emigrated to Australia in the 60’s, and had a spot of bother with some dingoes, and, oh, right, you need to get the fat nice and hot…”)

Mycroft at first ate sparingly, but then seemed to look forward to whatever Greg had made. When Mycroft began to fret about the weight gain, Greg assured him that he could indeed do with a bit of feeding up. Greg had never before measured relationship progress by the willingness of his significant other to casually dress a salad without hesitating, but there was a first time for everything.

Greg was also observing Mycroft’s life behind the scenes. It was a tough existence. As Anthea had stated, he seemed to be out at a formal dinner or dinner meeting or Parisian airport hotel every other night. On those nights he was “at home”, he was rarely in before 9:00 pm. He had made a point of attending several of Greg’s physical therapy sessions. Lestrade wondered what that had cost. Had Angela Merkel been kept on hold, listening to an instrumental version of “99 Luftballons”?

He’d taken to trying to make Mycroft’s evenings easier. In addition to a decent meal, on the evenings Mycroft was home, Greg would pour some drinks. They would sometimes unwind with football highlights, which often led to snogging on the sofa. Greg wondered if they were subconsciously stimulated by the men in short pants. He then wondered whether his whole fascination with football was driven by the sight of men in short pants. Mycroft’s hand inside his shirt convinced him that he really didn’t need to do all of this abstract thinking. 

Those nights were not as frequent as Greg would have liked, though. The first night that Mycroft arrived home after one of those late dinner meetings, he looked rather awful. He has bags under his eyes, his shoulders were a bit stooped, and Greg had to ask him a couple of questions at least twice. Greg knew what he needed to do. He found the massage oil in much the same place. He helped Mycroft undress and told him to lie down on the bed. Working through the knots in Mycroft’s shoulders, albeit only with one hand, he felt the kind of closeness that comes when two people can read each other. Mycroft made a few soft moans as the tension left him and then drifted off. 

After that, Greg decided he had carte blanche to help Mycroft unwind. In many ways, those nights were like a replay of their first couple of nights together: more massages with oil, sleeping curled together, and slow sex (and let’s face it, sex at their age was always slow).

After two weeks of this honeymoon-like state, Greg was cleared to go back to light duty. He decided that he really needed to go back to his flat. His morning routine still took a while, and it would be hard to combine it with a commute from Mycroft’s place. He didn’t want to wear out his welcome at Mycroft’s, either. They’d work up to living together, though. That he knew. They were both in it for the duration.


	18. Chapter 18

Epilogue

Mycroft seated himself on the office sofa. Was it for the last time? Perhaps. The last time, for the time being, was what he would say. He could no longer think of himself as emotionally invulnerable, Antarctica. He could be compromised. Yet, he now had some coping tools. He had Greg. Together, they could weather the storms. In his head, he was now, perhaps, Norway.

Shireen entered her office and seated herself across from him. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting. My case notes from last patient were rather complex. How is Greg?”

“Recovering nicely, thank you. He is back at work, desk duty to start. Because he lives so much closer to his office, he is also back at his flat. “

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I do miss him. He has a standing invitation to stay over, and he has already taken me up on it a few times. He - Greg said we should do this properly, with DATING, and, uh, working our way up to something more formal.”

“And do you agree?”

“I don’t know what to call our relationship, but whatever it is, I am quite happy with it.“

“Do you know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you use the word happy? I think I’m going to call you one of my success stories.” She hesitated. “What about your villains?” 

“They are both such narcissists that I thought surely we’d be faced with two trials, but both have been persuaded by counsel to come to an arrangement with the Crown Prosecution Service.”

Mycroft stepped out into the sunlight. He looked at his watch. Two hours until he took Greg and his delightful mother to a cream tea. He could tell that Greg was correct that he was the least favorite child, but being the least favorite Lestrade child seemed rather better than being the favorite Holmes child. Mycroft had tried to broach this subject at Baker Street. John had said that if all of his elderly patients were like Mrs. Lestrade, he’d be home by noon every day. Sherlock would only allow that Mrs. Lestrade made a passable biscuit. At that point, Rosie had requested a biscuit with great fervor. Really, the resemblance to the Foreign Minister - still uncanny.

Speaking of Sherlock, it was his day to visit Eurus. Mycroft wondered how he would fare. He and his parents were only visiting monthly at this point. He realized that he would have to leave his parents, Sherlock, and Eurus to find their own footing with each other.

Greg would be at the football game. While he was not yet cleared to play, his team had been at a bit of a loss without him. They had forgotten to reserve fields on several occasions, and all of the balls were slightly deflated, leading to abject ridicule when they had played against the police divers’ squad. Worse yet, without anyone to set up the roster strategically, they had simply continually reused the last one Greg had set for them, with disastrous results. Mycroft had only heard Greg’s half of the conversation, but it had been enough.

“Now then, Roberts, pull yourself together. What’s done is done. So you lost to Surrey Volunteer Fire. I know most of them are really accountants, but there’s no shame in that,” although Greg’s expression said otherwise. The next day, Greg had reserved a field, scheduled a practice, and arranged for professional laundering of the uniforms. With fabric softener. He was now unofficially coaching from the sidelines for the rest of their season. 

Mycroft would surprise him, and offer him a ride back to his flat. He might even offer a few insights gleaned from Robbie Savage’s mother.

Things were looking up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last completed. Thanks to all who are still reading, and for those of you who prefer completed stories, it is now safe to enter the water. If you want more of this universe of Mycroft and Greg, their story continues in "Move". I've decided that I'm not quite done with them, so I will be starting another casefic soon, although I can't promise frequent updates. This time, I think we'll go with a hearty country house weekend mystery. You can never have too many of those.


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